


A Very Johnlock Halloween

by Avath



Series: A Very Johnlock Series [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Halloween, Kidlock, Unilock, grownuplock, wimpy tentacle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 45,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avath/pseuds/Avath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>golfechoromeo, Anne and I are at it again! Another entry in our series of A Very Johnlock.... This time with Halloween prompts!</p>
<p>1 prompts, three writers = three ficlets a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Horror Movies - Avath

**Author's Note:**

> The very first prompt of A Very Johnlock Halloween is: Horror Movies!
> 
> Now this first chapter may be a little odd but I figure it's Halloween and odd things happen. If you're not familiar with the wimpy tentacle AU I hope you still enjoy and I also hope you click on over to tumblr and search the wimpy tentacle tag because it'll make your life 1000% better.
> 
> This ficlet of mine is dedicated to bbcatemysoul (or as she's more festively know, bbcatemypumpkinspice), the creator and lord of the wt AU. I can only hope that I don't bread any cardinal head canon rules in this. And, Heather, I am sorry about the mention of the g-word but it is Halloween and I had to scare you a bit.

Ever since Sherlock had sprouted his new appendages life had been a little different at 221b. Sherlock's natural grace had taken a temporary blow as he learned to navigate with tentacles. Of course, he never fully regained the grace he'd had due to one tentacle that didn't want to cooperate. The smallest tentacle, affectionately referred to as the wimpy one, refused to follow any of Sherlock's logical, very sensible commands but reacted solely to Sherlock's urges and moods.

For example, John had made the mistake of buying glitter markers to have the wimpy tentacle draw Halloween cards with (the happy recipients-to-be were John, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft). The wimpy tentacle had been gleefully drawing away (while Sherlock was staring down his microscope) when one piece of glitter was suddenly present on it. And then another. And another. And before anyone knew what was happening, the wimpy tentacle had thrown the glitter pen as far as it could and was flailing and lubing to try to get the glitter off.  
  
Sherlock hated glitter but he would never say so.

The wimpy tentacle hated glitter and could not contain himself.

After that incident, John (who had very enthusiastically accepted Sherlock's new body) had a very hard time inspiring any sort of Halloween cheer from Sherlock and the wimpy tentacle. There were more art projects that the wimpy tentacle rejected in fear of more glitter, there were baking sessions that John had to suffer through alone. He even tried putting the wimpy tentacle in a little army costume and when that didn't work John was almost driven to madness and very nearly brought home a pumpkin for the wimpy tentacle to carve. Luckily, he thought better of it. It was so prone to flailing and emotional outbursts that a knife was just not safe in its grasp. Someone or something would end up getting hurt.

So John gave up and came to terms with the fact that all his effort was for naught and he'd end up on the sofa, eating candy and watching horror movies on his own. He was lonely without the wimpy tentacle keeping him company.  
  
But, as with all things, they happen when you least expect it. 

John had sunk into the sofa, horror movie on the television and his hand far down a bag of pick'n'mix. And, suddenly, so was Sherlock's. And then, suddenly again, Sherlock was on the couch, his body bent awkwardly so he could rest his head on John's shoulder in a show of affection that John wasn't quite used to.  
  
Sherlock was ashamed of his behaviour after the glitter incident. He had blamed John entirely and so had his wimpy tentacle. And he knew that John relied on the wimpy tentacle for things that were hard for Sherlock himself to give, like affection and the constant shields-down approach to everything.  
  
“I don't like glitter,” he said.  
  
“I'm sorry. I didn't know,” John replied. He wondered if he was going to be treated to a long harangue as to why not, how could he be so _stupid not to know_? But he wasn't.  
  
Sherlock nodded. He knew that John didn't know. He wasn't observant. Sherlock kept forgetting that.  
  
“Why don't you?” John asked.  
  
A shiver ran up Sherlock's back. “It's _permanent._ Once it gets a hold of you, it never lets you go,” he said.  
  
John smiled fondly. _I knew he hadn't fallen asleep_ _watching Lord of the Rings_ , he thought.

“One gets on you and it seems to fornicate right on your skin because once there's one, there's _many_ ,” Sherlock whispered.   
  
John smiled a little wider. He was so very, very fond of Sherlock.  
  
“I'll never bring glitter into the flat again,” he said.  
  
Sherlock relaxed noticeably.

They watched the movie in silence. The wimpy tentacle slithered up into John's lap and laid across one of its favourite places in the world; John's groin.   
  
And John relaxed noticeably.

The movie went on and John started to notice something happening to Sherlock every time a tense scene reached crescendo. Sherlock twitched. Ever so slightly. And there was a little snuffling noise, like Sherlock was inhaling quickly through his nose. Like... he was frightened by the movie. But that couldn't be, could it?  
  
John thought he was imagining things until the wimpy tentacle was groping his cock rather desperately. And then trying to unbutton his jeans to get in for skin on skin contact.

He knew things must be dire when the wimpy tentacle started to flail, slapping itself down on John's groin in the complete frustration that he wasn't getting what he wanted.  
  
“Alright, alright. Calm down,” John said, unbuttoning his jeans. For being a wimpy tentacle, it didn't feel _entirely_ wimpy when it was thrashing on his cock.   
  
The wimpy tentacle was immediately pushing itself down. And then immediately came back up and started tugging at John's pants.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said. He wasn't about to sit with his pants around his knees, watching a horror movie. He just wasn't.  
  
“It's not me. It's just an appendage, John. I have no control,” Sherlock said.  
  
The wimpy tentacle had curled itself around John's wrist and was leading John's hand to his pants. “Oh, for Christ's sake,” he muttered.  
  
It was always Sherlock's way.

Always.  
  
John took a frustrated breath and then pulled his jeans and pants down to his knees. His lips were pressed in a thin line and everything about him was annoyed, down to the way he was breathing.

But the wimpy tentacle was very happy.

The wimpy tentacle was poking around John's bits. The tip went under John's testicles to see if it liked being there. It found the place satisfactory but not entirely what it wanted and so it looked on. 

It laid itself along John's shaft, using it like a body pillow. That way was also satisfactory, but not quite what it wanted.  
  
It turned out that the magic position was to wrap itself around John's cock.  
  
And squeeze.

And lube when there were really scary bits.  
  
“Really, John,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  
  
“I can't fucking help it if it's going to be doing that!” John said defensively. Anyone would get hard with the kind of attention he was getting. Wet, warm and tight. It was biologically ordained that he'd like it.

Sherlock huffed.  
  
“Fine. If you don't like it, then I'll go sit somewhere else,” John said. He had barely finished the sentence before he whimpered; the wimpy tentacle had curled around him like a boa constrictor.

He wasn't going anywhere.

“You're not going anywhere,” Sherlock said.   
  
“No, I don't think so either,” John said.  
  
After the glitter mishap and the exile from all his favourite comforts, he was very glad not to be.


	2. Horror Movie - golfechoromeo

John was sprawled out on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom, happily coulouring on the paper that had been procured earlier that day.  A big circle was being filled in with orange crayon to create a pumpkin when the door flew open and Sherlock stood in the frame, a mischievous and triumphant smile on his face and his hands behind his back.  
  
 John turned and looked back.  "Where did you go?" he asked.  "You said you had to go on a secret mission but you didn't want me going."

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes.  "I couldn't rithk you making too much noith and getting uth dithcovered.  I had to go on the mithhion alone."  His devilish grin widened.  "But I thuctheeded."

John's eyes widened and he got to his feet, his shirt wrinkled and bunched together from lying on his stomach on the floor.  "Where did you go?  What did you _get_?" 

Dramatically, Sherlock brought his hands around and held the thin rectangular box as though it were the most fragile and valuable object in the world.  "Thith ith what all the big kidth and adultth do for Halloween, John," he explained.  "They get together and watch thcary movieth.  _Horror_ movieth."

John nodded.  "I know.  Harry watches them but I'm not allowed to."  Slowly, he began to understand just how monumental this moment was in their young lives.  "Are we going to watch that one?" he asked, his voice slightly shaking with anticipation and excitement.

"Of courth we are," Sherlock said.  "I found it in Mycroft'th room.  He wath going to bring it with him to Greg'th houthe tonight."

"So we need to watch it now," John said, catching on. "Before Mycroft gets ready to leave and notices that it's gone."

"Exthactly."

John began giggling and nodded.  "Where are we going to watch?  Your mum and dad won't let us watch in the living room.  Sherlock, they're not going to let us watch that movie at _all._ "

"That'th why we're going to watch it in the bathement," Sherlock said with a smirk.  He was proud that he had thought of everything.  "We'll thay we're going to build a fort in the bathement, but really, we're going to watch the movie!  They will never thuthpect a thing.  We jutht have to be very quiet."

"What's it called?" John asked, feeling both thrilled and a little hesitant to watch the movie.  "What's the movie called?"

"The Thining," Sherlock said, his voice low, wanting to be as eerie as it could. 

It worked and John felt a shiver run down his spine.  "Okay.  Let's go."

A few minutes later, John and Sherlock were sitting on pillows on the floor of the basement, the old television in front of them, The Shining starting up.  The two boys had a blanket over their laps and a bowl of pretzels between them. 

"It's not going to be _that_ scary, right?" John asked, needing Sherlock to reassure him.  There must have been some reason why the adults didn't want them to see it.  All John could think was that there must be something very terrifying in this film to make it not appropriate to show.

"Of courthe it won't," Sherlock said, as he took a pretzel out of the bowl.  "It theemth to be about a hotel.  How thcary can it potthhibly be?  It'th all make believe, anyway."

"Okay," John said.  "It's not real."

"It'th not real."

To their credit, Sherlock and John made it most of the way through the movie before they ran screaming from the basement, flying up the stairs, and taking refuge in Sherlock's bedroom.  They jumped into Sherlock's bed and hid under the covers, both afraid that what they had seen in the movie would turn out to be true.

"The twins?" John asked, his voice trembling in absolute terror.

"Not real," Sherlock whispered.  "The blood in the lift?"

"Not real," John said back, the blanket over them shaking from how hard the two of them were shivering in fear.

"And the woman in the bathtub?" both boys asked at once.  They threw themselves down on the mattress and pulled the blanket over them even tighter, their eyes closed securely.

Downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were smiling to themselves as they sat in the living room, reading. 

"How long do you think it'll take them to recover?" Mr. Holmes asked, lazily turning the page of the paper.

"I'd give it a few days," Mrs. Holmes replied.  "I'm going to give John's mother a call and let her know that he'll probably want to spend the night."

"Should we show them Nightmare on Elm Street next?" Mr. Holmes asked sarcastically with a chuckle. 

"They think they're so sly," Mrs. Holmes replied with a soft exhale as she closed her book.  "Building a fort in the basement when you and I both know they like taking up as much of the living room as possible when they build forts.  They still weren't as obvious as when Mycroft watched Halloween when he was Sherlock's age."

"Oh, you mean when Mycroft told us that we needed to go upstairs for a few hours so that he could clean the entire house for us?  No, _that_ wasn't obvious at all."  Mr. Holmes chuckled to himself as he was swept up in the nostalgia.  "You know, he still won't admit to us that he ever watched it."

Mrs. Holmes looked at her husband with an arched eyebrow.  "And you think Sherlock will?  He'll take this secret to the grave with him and the next time we go on holiday and stay in a hotel..."

"Let's just hope there's no boy riding a tricycle around or we're in for years of therapy."

 

Mrs. Holmes smiled again and sighed.  "What do you think for tonight?  Something that won't give them nightmares?"

"Yes, dear," Mr. Holmes replied.  "The Great Pumpkin?"

"Probably for the best."

"Is it too mean to write 'redrum'on the bathroom mirror?"

"Don't you dare."


	3. Horror Movie - Anne

 

_"Do you want to watch a horror movie with me tomorrow night?"_

 

That was what John had asked Sherlock when they had met for lunch on Thursday. Apparently John wasn’t going to his customary Halloween party because he had an important Saturday morning lecture with such and such fascinating someone about such and such fascinating something. Sherlock had stopped listening to the details after he had processed the invitation. He was much more keen on considering a quiet night in with John than he was on learning about the leading expert in some drastically boring medical field. After all, there was a reason Sherlock wasn’t in medical school. 

 

_"Yes, sounds like an acceptable way to spend the evening."_

 

That was what Sherlock had replied, in what he hoped was a natural voice. 

 

_"I mean, don’t let me keep you from going out. I just thought maybe you didn’t have plans."_

That was John’s way of acknowledging that Sherlock didn’t have other friends, as well as providing him with an easy out just in case he didn’t want to get together. While John was becoming surprisingly literate in Sherlock-speak, and had somehow determined that his friend didn’t like to be forced into things, the older boy clearly hadn’t yet realized that Sherlock would never decline an invitation to spend time with him.  And the mention of Sherlock’s Halloween plans was certainly a laugh. No, Sherlock didn’t have plans, but if even if he had had them, he would have immediately cancelled them. 

 

_"I actually enjoy horror movies, and I enjoy watching you attempt to pass your science classes even more, Doctor Watson."_

 

That was how Sherlock had responded next, although he couldn’t think of the name of a single horror movie while he was speaking. So far as he could remember, he had seen one with a murderous doll at one point and one with a cursed elevator at some later point; he had considered both movies rather vapid, and therefore the details were unimportant. In defense of Sherlock’s hasty comment, he was sure watching a horror movie with John would indeed be quite enjoyable, if only because that meant he got to steal John’s laptop and plop himself down on his best friend’s bed while John skimmed through a spiral notebook of class notes. 

 

_"Very funny, Sherlock."_

 

_"What? It’s not my fault that watching your face as you study Organic Chemistry is particularly amusing."_

_"Arse. No studying tomorrow, though. You’ll have my full attention. Of course, I’m prepared to buy a ridiculous amount of wine and chocolate to appropriately compensate you."_

_"As it should be.”_

Sherlock’s memory of the day before’s conversation was suddenly shattered by Victor, who tromped into their dorm room with three friends and a bag of pot.

 

“Sher? _Sherlock?_ ” 

 

“Hm? What?” 

 

“We’re going to smoke in here before we go out. I thought you were going over to John’s.” 

 

“Yes, John’s. I’m going to John’s.” Victor shook his head somewhat affectionately. Victor liked Sherlock Holmes, even if his roommate was messy, eccentric, and exceedingly difficult to live with.

 

“You might want to go do that then.” He fumbled around in the bottom drawer of his desk for his lighter, tossing Sherlock a condom he happened to glance with a guffaw. “There you go. Have fun.” 

 

“What is this for?” 

 

“A very attractive bloke asked you to go watch a movie at his place on Halloween. I’m just reacting appropriately.” 

 

“You think John wants to sleep with me.” 

 

“Um. Yes. Absolutely, you goon.” Anxious chuckles filled the room; Victor’s mates agreed with him, but they didn’t know if they were permitted to tease Sherlock in the same fashion as Sherlock’s roommate was and escape with their lives. Sherlock rolled his eyes half-heartedly to convey his disapproval, swallowing uncomfortably as soon as Victor looked away. He gathered his things quickly (phone, phone charger, laptop, laptop charger, and room key), and proceeded to walk to John’s. His mouth was frighteningly dry for some reason. God, what was that about? 

 

While Sherlock knew Victor’s behavior was probably just a stab at his sexuality (okay, so he knew it wasn’t…), it had got him thinking. Did John really want to shag him? Was _that_ what the seemingly innocent invitation to watch a movie was all about? _Fuck…_ He didn’t know what to do… He didn’t know how to act… He was going to fuck the whole thing up and then John would never want to shag him.

 

Wait… Did he want to have sex with John? 

 

Yes. He did. How long had he wanted that? How had he not known that he wanted that? 

 

_Relax. Focus. Humans do this sort of thing. You are unfortunately human. Therefore, you clearly want to have sex. Therefore, you probably will have sex. Therefore, you should be fine having sex._

 

Sherlock felt as if he was walking in circles, his destination persistently and obnoxiously just out of reach during his entire walk to John’s dorm. Of course, Sherlock did also recognize that his reaction to the coming sexual encounter was more than a bit dramatic. He just couldn’t seem to stop his eager mind from puffing along far into the night, kilometers ahead of where he now walked like a animal to his slaughter. 

 

“Hey… Nice to see you, Sher. Sorry I couldn’t do lunch yesterday. Study session…” 

 

“I didn’t invite you to lunch… Did I?” 

 

“We always have lunch on Thursdays, you dolt.” Moron… Dolt… Sherlock was certainly collecting compliments tonight. 

 

“Oh… Right.” When Sherlock didn’t immediately enter John’s room, the older boy pressed a hand to Sherlock’s lower back to usher him in. Sherlock acting strangely wasn’t exactly a new development. John actually found it rather endearing, which was probably a good thing, as getting Sherlock to stop thinking was like learning how to ride a two-legged horse. 

 

“Movies, wine, and chocolate,” John presented with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. "As promised. Now I know you don’t like movies all that much—oh, don’t bother contradicting me. I may not be The Great Sherlock Holmes but I’m not an idiot—but this will be fun. Promise."

 

Promise? _Promise?_ What was that supposed to mean? Was John going to get right into fucking him, or were they still going with the cover story of watching a still unnamed horror film. 

 

“Silence of the Lambs okay?” John asked after staring at Sherlock expectantly for a moment. Damn, the young genius was really out of it tonight. 

 

“Um… Yes. Fine.” 

 

“Everything okay, Sher?” 

 

“Of course. It’s all fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine?”

 

“I dunno… Never can tell with you. For fuck’s sake, just sit down, drink some wine, and relax,” John demanded with a small laugh. “You’re making me nervous.” 

 

John was nervous. Was that because of the sex that had never been mentioned, but was going to happen as soon as John turned on the movie and off the lights…? 

 

“ _I'm_  making _you_ nervous?” 

 

“Yeah, a bit. You’re not planning to murder me in my sleep, are you?” Did John want him to _spend the night?_ Victor hadn’t mentioned the possibility of John wanting him to _spend the night._  


“No more than usual.” Nope. That hadn’t made sense. Sherlock hadn’t been able to construct a complete sentence and what he had been able to construct was less than an acceptable response. John didn’t seem to care. In fact, he simply flipped the light switch down, plopped down on the bed beside Sherlock, and pressed play on the movie that was already fully loaded on his laptop. Sherlock shivered upon feeling John so close and John absently pressed warm hands to Sherlock’s arms to banish the uneasiness that had clearly crept into the younger boy’s limbs. Only the music of the opening credits broke the silence as John gently stroked Sherlock’s hair and shoulders and waist until Sherlock finally felt warm and comfortable. Sometimes he needed to be touched. John was one of the few people whom he allowed to do so. It was one of the reasons their relationship was so integral to his survival. 

 

“John…” Sherlock’s eyelids gently fluttered open. He was already lost as far as the plot of the movie was concerned, but he felt sweet and pliable from being so brilliantly lavished with all of John’s attention.

 

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

 

“I’m a virgin.” John paused, his lips and tongue searching for words that didn’t immediately come. His face turned bright red in the process, as if all the blood in his body was currently painting his cheeks. 

 

“What?” he finally managed to choke out. 

 

“I’m a virgin. Thought you should know.” 

 

“And why did you think I should know that?” 

 

“For when we have sex. Obviously.” 

 

“Obviously? Jesus, Sherlock… You think we’re having sex?” 

 

“Obviously.” 

 

“ _Obviously._ My god, you’re a loon!” 

 

“What? What did I say?” 

 

“Sherlock, I never said we were going to have sex.” 

 

“So you don’t want to shag me?” 

 

“Hardly seems relevant.” 

 

“Of course it’s relevant.” 

 

John cleared his throat, finally shutting the lid of his laptop so they could talk in peace. 

 

“I didn’t know you went for that sort of thing. Which is perfectly okay with me. I want you to comfortable.” 

 

“I do.” 

 

“You do what, Sher?” 

 

“I do go in for that sort of thing.” 

 

John mussed up his hair in wordless contemplation, eventually looking up to study Sherlock thoroughly. What was going on in that massively intelligent brain of his anyway? _Why_ was Sherlock so incredibly stupid about certain things? At least he seemed to have deduced John’s feelings for him, which was exhilarating as well as terrifying. 

 

“Okay.” 

 

“Okay?” 

 

“Yeah, okay… C’mere.” 

 

“To have sex?” 

 

“I don’t know. Probably not. Maybe. Damn it, Sherlock. I’m just going to kiss you first, okay?” 

 

“Fine.” Sherlock heart was trembling and shaking and pounding away in his chest with such violence that he would have sworn he couldn’t feel his fingers and toes. And then soft lips gently brushed against his own, making him suddenly hot and needy. 

 

“How was that?” 

 

“Um…” Sherlock pulled one side of his bottom lip between his teeth, resenting the fact that John was making him think and create words in a distressingly distracting situation. He was gorgeous like that, unsure and flushed and raw with inexperience. John couldn’t help but kiss him again, just one more time in case he never got to again. He brought a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, tenderly stroking the skin. “Scale of 1-10, 1 being terrible and 10 being wonderful.” 

 

“Unacceptable.” 

 

“The kiss?” John asked uncertainly, feeling a deep pang of guilt momentarily overtake him. He should have kept his bloody lips to himself and off of his asexual best friend. 

 

“The scale. Even if I could possibly rank that kiss on a scale of 1-10, I would need more data to make an accurate assessment.” Ah, of course. Sherlock smiled weakly, settling his head against John’s chest bashfully in response to his forwardness.

 

“Oh. Well, I could give you more data. Hey… look at me for a second.” Sherlock’s head slowly tilted upwards until pale eyes met dark ones. His lips were still tingling, he could hear the beating of his heart, and he was almost 100% positive that oxygen wasn’t being properly distributed throughout his body. “Are you okay? This… This seems like a lot for you.” 

 

“Can we watch more of the movie?” 

 

“Of course.” John cleared his throat and returned his attention to his laptop, which he reopened after a quick moment in which he cleared his head. Jodie Foster reappeared back on his screen and John carefully placed an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock responded by reclining completely on John’s lap so that he could barely watch the movie and presenting his hair to be fussed over. John happily obliged him. 

 

For all of five minutes. 

 

That was how long it took Sherlock to process the situation. 

 

When he reached his conclusion, he shot up out of John’s lap and pressed him back against the bed in a single choppy motion. The laptop slid to the floor, and the bed creaked its surprise. 

 

“Okay, okay… Slow down there,” John protested, running hands down Sherlock’s back soothingly. 

 

“Christ, John… Don’t complain. Just shut up and fuck me.” 


	4. Haunted House - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 October: Haunted House.
> 
> I am sorry that I'm late. I was really busy yesterday and then I went out and have been suffering the consequences all day. But on the bright side, two sets of ficlets today!

“I don't wanna go in,” John said quietly.   
  
“We have to go in,” Sherlock said. The haunted house was the whole reason he'd wanted to come to the Halloween fair in the first place.   
  
“I don't _wanna_ ,” John said. Other kids were coming out in tears, trembling, pale and looking like they had suffered severe shock. He didn't want to feel that way.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, elongating the vowel in a whine.

John pouted. He didn't want to be scared in a house. He was always scared in his own house and that was enough. He wanted to go back to Sherlock's house where he was never scared except sometimes when he woke up in the middle of the night when he was sleeping over. One time he'd started to cry and Mrs. Holmes had woken and made him feel better with a biscuit. John liked that sort of house the best. The safe kind. The kind where tears were met with biscuits and not tell offs.

But Sherlock was  hellbent on going in to  the Haunted House  and it was very hard to say no when Sherlock had decided on something.  
  
So John went in with Sherlock, cowering behind him and holding back tears. He was already scared. His dad had told him he must never cry because real boys don't feel things that way. John wanted so badly to be a real boy, the kind his dad wanted him to be. He had learned to stop crying when his dad told him to stop because otherwise his dad got so mad that he'd hit him on the arm.  And then John had learned not to cry at all  in front of anyone.   


But he cried sometimes when he was alone. Afterwards he was so ashamed of himself that he promised to never cry again. He had cried less and less over the months. The burning behind his eyes now as he walked into the darkness of the haunted house frustrated him and he felt angry at Sherlock for making him do it.  
  
“Ow John, you're hurting my hand. Thtop thqueething tho hard,” Sherlock whined.   
  
“Sorry,” John said, letting go of it completely and feeling so alone that his eyes burned even worse. A tear slipped out from the corner of his eye and he wiped it off quickly.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said impatiently. Didn't John understand anything? He had said to stop squeezing not to stop holding. He took John's hand again and dug his fingertips in so John couldn't get away again.   
  


It made John feel worse. He was in a haunted house and he was crying and Sherlock had told him off just like his dad did. He wasn't a boy like he was supposed to be a boy. Boys weren't supposed to be scared and cry. And John was always scared. He was always doing something wrong. He sniffed and had to wipe his eye again.   
  
He didn't like haunted houses. Being in a haunted house felt like being at home. He didn't like it at all. He wondered if Sherlock felt like being at his home with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes was like being in a haunted house. But then why would he want to go to another one for fun?   
  
Maybe something was wrong with John's home.

John struggled with the concept, turning it over in his head. He felt guilty because it suggested that something was wrong with his mum and dad and he wasn't supposed to think that way, he knew he wasn't. When he got yelled at it was because he had done something bad. _He_ was bad.   
  
He was so deep in his thoughts that he didn't really notice when a teenager in a costume jumped out from behind a corner.   
  
“John!” Sherlock called out, flinging his arms around John and hiding his face. When the immediate fear had settled, the adrenaline rush turned to laughter and Sherlock giggled.   
  
“You weren't even thcared! Wow! You're brave!” Sherlock said.  
  
John lifted his chin proudly. He hadn't been scared at all.  
  
“John, can I walk behind you?” Sherlock asked. “I'm thcared,” he whispered into John's ear. 

”Yes,” John said. He felt so much braver just because Sherlock thought of him as brave. Sherlock was scared and needed to walk behind John so John needed to keep being brave. And he was. Costumed teenagers jumped out in front of him, to the side of him and behind him and he didn't get scared at all. He just held Sherlock's hand and let him huddle close.   
  
John wasn't one of the crying children when they exited the haunted house. Neither was Sherlock because he was made a little braver by John's bravery.

Mrs. Holmes drove John home and had to deal with Sherlock kicking the back of her seat when she told him that John couldn't sleep over that night. She couldn't blame him. He always had a stomach ache when John was at home and she suffered the same unease. John never said anything but she sensed something wasn't quite as it should be. 

John was sent to bed early as it was Friday night and his parents wanted to drink wine and watch television in peace. The silence of his room was deafening after the noises of the Halloween fair and the masks he'd seen in the haunted house suddenly seemed so much scarier in his own. He wasn't as brave without Sherlock there. He didn't need to be brave for anyone but himself and he just couldn't do it. 

He crawled into his bed and pulled the covers over his head so nobody would hear him cry. 


	5. Haunted House - golfechoromeo

__  
It was with raucous laughter that the four boys piled out of a dorm room and began to walk down the hall towards the front door.  
  
"You are a _clot_ ," John said cheerfully, clapping Rob jovially on the back.  "But don't worry.  We will have time after the haunted house to go out and get you sufficiently pissed."  
  
"Oh yes," Victor agreed.  "Nice and drunk to help ease the pain of being scared by people in costume jumping out at you."  
  
"You lot have never been to this place before!" Rob protested while Mike chuckled to himself.  "I'm telling you! It's way worse than you think it's going to be!"  
  
"I'm sure," Victor said, trying not to roll his eyes.  They were approaching a dorm door when he nudged John in the side.  "Going to pop in on old Sherls and see if he wants to join us?"  
  
John knew Victor well enough to know that there was a little bit more in his voice than just innocent curiosity.  And while he had never told Victor about his feelings for Sherlock, he assumed he didn't need to, that Victor knew all on his own.  The two of them exchanged a quick look where Victor gave an encouraging smile and a quick nod of the head, which John returned before walking a little faster to the dorm door in question and knocking.  
  
It opened almost immediately.   
  
"Sherlock, hi," John said, his friends following up behind him.   
  
"Hello, John," Sherlock said, inclining his head at the others who waved back at him.  "If you're here to try and persuade me to join you in your outings this evening-"  
  
"You don't have to," John said, quickly.  "Just thought I'd-"  
  
"I would be more than happy to accompany you to the haunted house," Sherlock finished.  
  
"Oh," John said, the usual feeling of a rug being jostled beneath his feet when Sherlock beat him to the punch.  "How did you know?"  
  
"I have my ways," Sherlock said mysteriously.  He was careful to avoid Victor's eye, lest he give away that he had been told of the plans ahead of time.  Victor, meanwhile, wasn't even bothering to hide his smile.  These two idiots would get together, even if he had to play Cupid every day until graduation.  
  
"So you'll come then?" John asked hopefully.   
  
"Interesting choice of words there, Johnny," Rob said.   
  
"Shut up," John snapped, hoping that his face wouldn't blush at all.  
  
"Yes, I will join you," Sherlock said smiling, stepping out of his dorm and closing the door behind him.   
  
"Excellent!" Victor said with unbridled enthusiasm, standing between John and Sherlock and wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders.  "Let's go see how long it takes before Rob starts crying out of fear!"  
  
  
"But that's not a house at all," Sherlock said upon their arrival at the attraction.  "It is a warehouse."  
  
"Ware _house_ ," Rob said slowly, as though confused as to how the brilliant young mind couldn't wrap his head around it.  
  
"The term haunted _house_ ," Sherlock retorted, his tone one of impatience, "implies that it is a residential home that is inhabited with ghosts, ghouls, demons, and other such supernatural beings.  It does _not_ conjure the image of an old empty building which has been transformed into what I'm assuming will be makeshift corridors allowing people dressed in cheap store-bought costumes to jump out at us and try and instill fear."  
  
"Sherlock, is that where you thought we were going?" Mike asked.  "An actual house?"  
  
"Oh, come off it, Stamford," John said, not wanting his friends to take the mickey out of Sherlock this early.  It was a miracle Sherlock had even agreed.  The last thing John wanted was for him to regret ever coming in the first place.   
  
"I just expected something more authentic," Sherlock said stiffly.  
  
"Well, let me tell you," Rob said with a laugh.  "It's going to feel pretty authentic in there."  
  
"I'm sure," Sherlock replied, oozing with sarcasm and obvious disbelief.  
  


When they walked into the building, Sherlock had a hard time not pointing out all of the things that were clearly fabricated: the cobwebs, the spiders, the bats, the lighting, the fog.

"They're even playing _music_ in the background," he whispered to John who bit his lip trying to keep his giggle in check. 

"Shhh!" Victor said, swatting Sherlock playfully on the arm.  "Don't take the rest of us out of the moment.  We're all here to be scared shitless."

Victor, Rob, and Mike moved forward ahead of John and Sherlock, and John couldn't help but notice a wink thrown back in their general direction.  _He's giving us some room to be alone_ , John thought happily, until he remembered the locale.  A haunted house was not exactly the prime location for anything to happen.  There was nothing romantic about the fake sound of a chainsaw revving up or of fake thunder clapping.

"Oh good," Sherlock said.  "Now that they're gone can I finally illustrate all that makes this haunted _ware_ house inauthentic? Or...did you want to be scared as well?"

John shook his head.  "Nah, tell me all about how fake it is.  It'll be a good laugh."

The two of them moved through the, as Sherlock predicted, makeshift corridors, finding nothing at all terrifying about the man in the werewolf mask ("Honestly, what would a wolf even be doing in a house?"), the vampire, ("That poor girl is going to spend hours removing that pancake makeup from her face."), and the person who jumped out in the hockey mask ("Yes, we knew you were going to do that.  We could see your feet beneath this cleverly hung sheet from the ceiling.  Your left shoelace is coming undone, by the way.").

The screams from the truly terrified groups of uni students both ahead of them and behind them contrasted greatly with the laughs that were echoing from John's mouth.  This was far more fun than being scared.  Even Sherlock himself was laughing, finding John's chuckle to be infectious.

"Am I ruining the haunted warehouse for you?" he asked after they had circumvented another corridor, now instead walking behind the drapery where they could see all of the props and belongings from the staff against the wall.

"You mean, have you taken all of the horror and mystery out of it by taking me on a private stroll behind the scenes?" John asked with a raised eyebrow.  "A bit.  I don't mind though.  This is better."

"I think so too."

They had reached a comfortable silence, one that was familiar to both of them.  Nothing needed to be said, but both Sherlock and John felt like something needed to be done.  Usually, after a certain amount of time, John would awkwardly clear his throat and begin rambling about something so as to not act on his impulse to just lean over and snog Sherlock senseless, although Sherlock just thought John hated silence.  This time, however, John did not clear his throat.  Sherlock, of course, noticed, and turned his head sharply to look at his best friend beside him curiously.

John shrugged and moved closer, their arms now touching.  He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it, not knowing what on earth to say.  Somehow, he thought that saying, _Sherlock, I think you're the most gorgeous person I've ever known in my life and every day is a struggle not to tell you and kiss you and you're brilliant and I consider myself lucky to have you as my best friend even though I want you to be so much more_ , was a bit dramatic and rather obvious.  If there was anything Sherlock hated, it was the obvious.

So John decided not to tell him everything.  In fact, John decided not to tell him _anything_.  He reached out and took hold of Sherlock's hand, causing them both to stop walking.

Sherlock's muscles tightened immediately.  What was John doing?  Physical affection?  This never happened.  Why did John want them to stop walking?  Why was John moving in closer? It was almost like...  "John," he whispered, comprehension dawning, before their lips pressed together in the dark.

"How long?" Sherlock asked a few minutes later when they began to walk again, both of them breathless and flushed from what turned out to be a rather intense bout of snogging.  They were hand in hand and had giddy smiles plastered onto their faces.

"How long...what?" John asked.  "Have I been wanting to do that?  Come on, genius.  Figure it out."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed as they walked past a cackling witch without pausing to tell John everything that was wrong with her outfit.  "I would, but I'm afraid I've exhausted my powers of deduction on this haunted warehouse.  It sucked me clean dry.  All I think I have the energy left to do is kiss you some more."

"You know the rest of them will be wondering where we've gone off to," John said.  "We shouldn't keep them waiting."

"No," Sherlock agreed.  "We shouldn't.  I wasn't referring to doing it right this minute though, either.  I meant later tonight."

John beamed as he squeezed Sherlock's hand.  "Yeah, alright," he said.  "I'll see what I can do.  One request?"

"Of course."

"Let's come back here every night until it closes," John said eagerly.  How wrong he had been.  A haunted house, dark, secluded, private, was the prime location for something to happen between them.


	6. Haunted House - Anne

Sherlock had been stealing John’s t-shirts for a solid month. 

 

At first, “accidentally” grabbing the wrong hot shirt off of the top of the laundry pile had been simple experimentation. Would John notice? If he did, what would he say? 

 

Sherlock kept the shirt under his pillow for a few days, fantasizing to himself that the faint smell of detergent was John’s smell, even though he knew it wasn’t. John smelled like tea and aftershave and _John_.

 

John said nothing. If he knew that the shirt had been confiscated, he certainly didn’t chastise Sherlock for it. 

 

When Sherlock got tired of the first shirt (which now smelled entirely like the detective and not like his doctor), Sherlock snuck upstairs and tossed it into John’s laundry bin with a sigh, already feeling an unfamiliar tingling in his fingers. He needed to take something else. But what? How? When? 

 

Ah, of course. 

 

Sherlock snuck a dirty t-shirt from the bin, a devilish smile extending from ear to ear. This second shirt smelled more strongly of John, although Sherlock had been careful not to choose a bad smelling one. 

 

He slept with this t-shirt for an entire week, even pulling it on when he was in the midst of a sulk. John still hadn’t reacted to his theft, so Sherlock began blatantly walking around the flat in the stolen shirt. John said nothing. Sherlock assumed that the soldier simply thought Sherlock was absentminded enough to put on a shirt he found in his things without noticing who it belonged to. 

 

The pattern of theft continued, and Sherlock’s transgressions worsened. He took to stealing John’s pants and socks as well as his shirts, and finally a pair of his sweatpants. By the end of October, he was wearing exclusively John’s clothes, if only because he desperately wanted John to acknowledge how naughty he was and how many boundaries he was crossing with his terrible behavior. 

 

Sherlock was honestly getting a bit irritated at this point. Why wasn’t John reacting? He loved it when John reacted to the awful things he did. 

 

Ah, well… Perhaps stealing John’s clothes wasn’t the right tactic. He could always find something else to get his flatmate’s attention.

 

And it was that thought that landed Sherlock on the couch wearing nothing but John’s red pants. 

 

“Sherlock…?” 

 

“Mmhm…” he hummed, not bothering to look up from his paper. 

 

“What are you wearing?” There was a pregnant pause, in which Sherlock had to assess whether John was angry or amused or surprised.

 

“This? This is my Halloween costume for the annual Scotland Yard Halloween Party. What do you think?” 

 

John snorted, collapsing on the couch beside his rather impossible best friend. 

 

“What are you supposed to be?” 

 

“The Canadian flag. I just need to attach a leaf right here,” he explained pointing directly between his legs. 

 

“That’s all very well, Sherlock, but I think you’re wearing my pants.” 

 

“Do you want them back?” 

 

“Actually, yes. I happen to like them a great deal.” 

 

“Well, I don’t want to take them off. Too lazy.” 

 

“That’s just fine. I don’t mind assisting.” With that, John leaned over Sherlock just a bit and slowly pressed the red pants free of Sherlock’s rather large arse, down his thighs and legs, and off over his feet until he finally held them in one of his hands triumphantly. “There. That’s better.” 

 

“I’m cold now,” Sherlock complained with a pout. 

 

“Let me get you some of my socks, hm? Or perhaps one of my jackets? Or one of my shirts?” 

 

“Fine. A shirt would be fine.” 

 

“Okay, excellent.” John rose slowly, his face bright and his exhales reduced to shallow huffs. 

 

“ _No._ “ 

 

“No what?” 

 

“I don’t want a new shirt. I want the one you’re wearing.” John swallowed thickly, offered Sherlock a cocky smile and then obediently stripped his shirt off and handed it to Sherlock, who contently took in a long whiff of it. 

 

“You’re not allowed to complain that it’s dirty, given the circumstances.” 

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” John chuckled. Sherlock was so ridiculously smug from finally getting John’s attention that the doctor was more intrigued than annoyed. It was no secret that Sherlock loved attention, but this seemed like a new level of crazy. 

 

He finally sat back down next to Sherlock, and after watching Sherlock read the newspaper for a few more minutes, he took the initiative to gently run his fingers up the other man’s thighs. _Fuck_ , he had to stop that. It was radically inappropriate. For all he knew, Sherlock would bite his head off for destroying the platonic nature of their relationship. Then again, the obnoxious fucker was currently nude on their sofa, so it would follow that his reaction wouldn’t be too terribly negative. 

 

“You wouldn’t happen to know where all my clothes have been disappearing off to, would you?” John finally asked innocently, eyes sparkling as he allowed his fingers to travel just a bit higher. Sherlock sighed contently, wiggling his hips just slightly to get more comfortable, although he doubted he could truly ever be comfortable sitting still while John was stroking him like that. 

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

“C’mon, Sherlock… Where have my clothes been getting off to?” John squeezed Sherlock’s thigh and then slowly slid his hands to that luscious arse. Sherlock dropped the newspaper over the side of the couch, clearing his throat to suppress a whine. 

 

“I _don’t know._ ” Sherlock was getting unmistakably flushed, and John was beginning to enjoy himself more and more. 

 

“Clever man like you can’t figure it out?” 

 

“The flat is haunted.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Yes. Only reasonable explanation. Our flat is haunted by spirits.” 

 

“Of course.” 

 

In retrospect, John should have punished his flatmate for the theft of his personal items. He should have reminded Sherlock that he needed personal space, even though they were living together. Perhaps, he should have even found a new place to live, where he didn’t have to live in fear of being violated or sexually harassed.

 

However, it turned out that John found it particularly hard to be angry at Sherlock while he was fucking him.


	7. Ghost Stories - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late, late, late. I am so sorry.
> 
> Today's prompt is: Ghost stories.

John was perched on the edge of a sofa. Not just any sofa but the sofa in Sherlock's house. In the sitting room, to be exact. Opposite him was Sherlock's dad which perhaps wouldn't have been as scary if Sherlock was in the room, too. However, Sherlock was still upstairs doing god knows what in preparation for their first date.

And Mr. Holmes had offered to keep John company in the meantime.

Christ.

John could only imagine what Mr. Holmes thought of him. If he was anything like John's dad, there was a sea of homophobic slurs coming his way any second. Not that his dad knew or would _ever_ know that John sometimes fancied boys. Even with that in his head, he thought that he'd prefer facing his father rather than be alone with Mr. Holmes much longer. The kind, pleasant look on Mr. Holmes' face made the situation all the more scary.

“Sherlock says you're going to be a doctor,” Mr. Holmes said. He was leaning back in his chair, his legs crossed neatly and his hands clasped over the knee.

“Yes, that's the plan,” John said.

“Good marks then? Clever? Can you keep up with my boy?” Mr. Holmes asked.  
  
The confusion John felt was evident on his face. Was he going to be belittled for not being as clever as Sherlock? _No one_ was. He had got into medical school for god's sake. He wasn't stupid even if he wasn't as smart as Sherlock. “I do get good marks so I suppose I'm clever. And I keep up with Sherlock,” John said. _Well I keep up with him most of the time,_ he thought. What was a little white lie in the face of attack to save a little dignity?  
  
“Good, good,” Mr. Holmes said. He was starting to look a little uncomfortable. Kind of fidgety. “I think I shall have some tea. Just a moment.”   
  
Mr. Holmes disappeared through a side door and John heard him fussing with a kettle. It was awful to sit there and imagine Mr. Holmes coming back with a cup of tea and sitting himself imperiously down to calmly sip at it while slowly picking apart John's entire person. John was sure he was capable of it considering who his sons were. They must have learned it somewhere.

But when Mr. Holmes returned it was with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits that he placed right in front of John. He eagerly gestured at John to help himself. John did, despite the fact that his mouth was so dry that he didn't know if he'd be able to swallow.   
  
“So, John, what do your parents do?” Mr. Holmes asked.  
  
John shrunk back into himself. It just didn't sound good to say that his dad had been dismissed from the army because of his drinking problem and that his mother was so exhausted from taking care of him that she could only work part time. “Dad's a veteran. Collects his pension from the army. Mum's a teacher,” he said.   
  
“Very noble professions. A war hero and a teacher. Sounds like a romantic story. And now the fruit of that story is going to be a doctor,” Mr. Holmes said with a smile.  
  
The confusion John felt was evident on his face again. Did Mr. Holmes know about the state of his parents' marriage? Had Sherlock told him or had Mr. Holmes simply read it on him like Sherlock had?  
  
When John didn't reply, Mr. Holmes stirred his tea, looking more agitated.   
  
“October is a funny month,” he said. “Autumn is in full kick and Halloween is just around the corner. People get more superstitious this time of year, don't they? And believe in things they perhaps don't other times of the year. Ghost stories in particular,” he said.   
  
John stared at Mr. Holmes, his mouth hanging open just slightly. Was he about to be threatened? _You're not far from being a ghost yourself, John, if you don't stay away from my son_?   
  
“I don't mean to scare you but this house has been around for a very long time,” Mr. Holmes said, looking around with apparent affection for the walls and roof he lived under.  
  
“Yes, it was built by a James Leigh and his family at the start of the nineteenth century or so. Quite a long time for a house to stand. A lot of families to pass through,” he said, sounding ominous.  
  
John had no idea what was going on except that it couldn't be good. His mouth was still hanging open.  
  
“Yes, when we bought the house, the previous owner told us to be careful this time of year. The house gets into a state of unrest you see. Noises. Things moving about that no one has touched. Cold spots. Sometimes whisperings in the dark when you're the only one awake,” Mr. Holmes said.   
  
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. 

“This house,” he said, looking around with hesitation, “is haunted. By the dead. And if you don't look out, they'll get you.”

John had been threatened before, but never quite like this. It figured it would have to be dramatically when it was a relation of Sherlock's 

“Why, just last night I couldn't get to sleep and I came down for a glass of milk and a biscuit – the kind of biscuit you're eating now, in fact – and I was just minding my own business when a pencil rolled off the kitchen table. I was no where near the table at the time so I couldn't have accidentally nudged it off myself. I was put on my guard, of course. I looked around to see if it was Sherlock Or Mikey having a bit of a joke but I was alone. And then the light in the fridge flickered at me and I turned tail and ran up the stairs. I had the feeling someone was right behind me and I heard whisperings. I could only pick up a few words. Something about a woman, a knife and blood. I laid awake for hours before I got back to sleep. It was frightful,” Mr. Holmes said with a full body shiver. “Don't be fooled by the cozy interior of this house. It carries a dark history and it might just be the death of you.”

He looked expectantly at John who could only stare back. The tension was high between them.

There was a rumbling on the stairs and it made both of them jerk.   
  
“Jo-o-ohn!” Sherlock called out from the landing.  
  
“He's in the sitting room with me, Sherlock! Just having a cuppa!” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
 _Just having a cuppa? You just threatened to have me killed in this house with a woman and a knife and blood_ , John thought. Was Sherlock's dad a psychopath?  
  
Sherlock thundered in, closely followed by his mother who was grinning ear to ear.   
  
“Sherlock. Hello,” John said, standing up. His mouth was dry again but this time it wasn't from nerves or fear. It was because Sherlock was in jeans. John had never seen Sherlock in jeans before. The dark blue fabric hugged his hips just right and John could not wait to see the back of him. He cleared his throat guiltily. It wouldn't do to have those kinds of thoughts with Sherlock's parents right there especially when one was already keen on having him murdered.  
  
“John. I apologise for keeping you waiting. Apparently, that's what I'm supposed to say. Did I do it right, mummy?” Sherlock said, giving his mother a scathing look. His mother seemed unfazed.   
  
“It's fine,” John said.   
  
“I've made him tea!” Mr. Holmes said, gesturing at the half empty cups on the table. He shared a look of pride with Mrs. Holmes that confused John entirely. Had he been drugged? Wasn't he feeling a bit nauseous?  
  
“Oh, how lovely. What a remarkable time you must have had. Can we go now?” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah, let's go,” John said, as eager as Sherlock was to leave.   
  
Sherlock moved forward and took John's hand and started to pull him out the room. Mrs. Holmes stifled a gasp behind a hand and Mr. Holmes cried out, “Wait! Wait, boys. There's something... important... please,” he said. There were sounds of a hand digging into a pocket.

Sherlock went rigid and stopped. “No,” he said, simply.  
  
“Please, Sherlock,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“ _No_ ,” Sherlock said again.   
  
John turned around, half expecting to see a gun in Mr. Holmes' hand.   
  
But it wasn't a gun, it was a camera.   
  
“Please,” Mr. Holmes said again.  
  
“Yes, of course we ought to have a picture. It's a big moment. You're _finally_ going on a date with John. John Watson. How you've waited. You'll want a picture of this later, you mark my words, Sherlock,” Mrs. Holmes said.   
  
“N-N-,” Sherlock stammered, looking at horror at his mother and then refusing to meet John's eye. His mother had humiliated him. She'd made him sound like he'd been pining for John. The embarrassment was so acute that he couldn't steel himself to the force of his mother pulling him and John into position in front of the fireplace. He couldn't even arrange his facial expression into something other than shy and blushing as Mr. Holmes took pictures.   
  
When Sherlock recovered from the shock of being outed as a being with emotions and desires, he was quick to remove himself and John from the house so they could be on their date alone.   
  


“Seems a lovely boy, doesn't he,” Mrs. Holmes said, watching the boys walk down the street toward the bus stop.   
  
“Yes. A little shy, I think. I asked him questions and he seemed a little unused to the attention. And he's a little jumpy. I told him one of my ghost stories and he seemed terrified. I don't know how he copes with Sherlock if he's that sensitive a boy,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“Oh dear. I hope he will cope. Sherlock will be just heartbroken if it doesn't work out,” Mrs. Holmes said. She knew the quality of her husband's ghost stories and they weren't very good. Maybe John had just been pretending to be scared to please Mr. Holmes. She could only hope.   
  
“Yes. Me too. I like him very much. Very good boy. Handsome and clever. I might be heartbroken too,” Mr. Holmes said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thought of Mr. Holmes telling the Ghost Story version of dad jokes makes me just laugh and laugh.


	8. Ghost Stories - golfechoromeo

It had been a long week, that was for certain.  At least John and Sherlock could both agree on that.  Where they differed greatly, however, was how they felt about the case they had been working on.  Ghost stories that were coming true.  For Sherlock, it was intriguing and amazing, a challenge to try and figure out each one before the next occurred.  For John, it meant having to reel the consulting detective in and do a majority of the legwork, bringing himself to parts of London to talk with people and do more "social research" as Sherlock called it.   
  
They had returned back to the flat after Sherlock had successfully solved the case, discovering that the man with "a hook for a hand" had made one crucial error when he also pretended to be ghostly hitchhiker, leaving residue from the old burned down church that he had been using as his refuge and his next location at the scene of one of the murders.   
  
"Of course, no ghost stories are true," Sherlock said pompously, tossing his jacket onto the couch.  "We just had to wait for him to make an error.  He was eventually going to try and lure a victim to the abandoned church, but he needed to make sure it was set up first.  Meticulous planning.  And the foolish mistake to assume that anyone in his or her right mind would believe a ghost story."  
  
John fought the urge to roll his eyes.  "Yes, alright.  But Sherlock, you can't tell me that you haven't believed a ghost story at one time."  
  
"Of course I haven't," Sherlock said indignantly.  "What part of them could ever hold any sort of factual accuracy?"  
  
John smiled and shook his head.  "You know you don't always have to pretend to be so immune to anything that could pull the wool over your eyes.  Some of them can't be explained."  
  
" _All_ of them can be explained, John," Sherlock said, his intelligence insulted and offended.  "I can't believe _you_ would ever believe _any_ of them."  
  
"Oh, I didn't say that I necessarily _believe_ them," John said with a shrug.  "I'm just saying that they can't all be explained.  There are some that vex people today, still."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"I don't know," John said in exasperation as he sank down into his armchair.  "Bloody Mary for starters"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Bloody Mary... The woman who appears in your bathroom mirror?  Say her name three time and she... Would you stop laughing, Sherlock?  I'm serious."  
  
"And so am I," Sherlock said, the laughter dying away.  "John, these are ghost _stories_.  They are fabricated for the sole purpose of children scaring each other.  Nothing more.  Any _sightings_ are, I'm sure, just as fabricated to keep the story alive."  
  
"You don't think there are some things that even _you_ would find scary if any of those things occurred?" John asked, deeply skeptical, an idea brewing.   
  
"John, I have never been scared by anything of the sort in my life," Sherlock said pompously.  "Nor do I think I would ever start believing now."  
  
"Alright," John said, feigning defeat.  "You're the man of science after all.  You would know."  
  
"Yes, I would," Sherlock said, bringing himself up to full height.   
  
"Tell you what," John said as he picked up the newspaper on the table beside him, opening it and idly flipping through the pages.  "Why don't we go to Angelo's.  You wash up, then I will, and then we'll get some lasagne.  And then you can tell me all about how none of the popular ghost stories have any sort of validity.  Deal?"  
  
Sherlock grinned.  He liked nothing more than showing off for John and he would never turn down Angelo's.  "Deal."   
  


John knew that Sherlock would be in the shower for a considerable amount of time.  He was just like a child in that matter.  He'd put up a fight usually until John bribed him (this time with Angelo's), but once he was under the hot water, it was rather difficult to get him out.  But John needed all the time he could in order to carry out his plan.  It was a long shot that he could fool Sherlock, but even if he made Sherlock doubt himself for only a second, it would be worth it.  The instant that John heard the water turn on, he got to work.

 

Sherlock had no idea how long he had been under the onslaught of the hot beads of water, but it must have been a rather long time judging by the amount of steam that was billowing over and around him, occupying the bathroom.  He was so deep in his own mind, working through the nuances of the case he had just solved.  _They_ had just solved.  He would need to give John a minimal amount of credit.  Sherlock would give the murderer this: he had provided Sherlock with something out of the norm and not run of the mill like the other cases that month had been. 

Deciding it was time to get out of the shower once the hot water started to run out (John would be most displeased), Sherlock turned the knob, dried himself, and wrapped the towel around his waist as he stepped out of the tub.  He had been right about the steam.  The entire bathroom was fogged up. 

Something, however, was different.  Towels on the bar were shifted.  John must have come in when Sherlock was too distracted by the case to have heard him.  Out of the corner of his eye, there was something that grabbed his attention, causing Sherlock to turn his head sharply to see.  He almost laughed aloud.  John had most certainly been in the bathroom, and was trying to prove a point.

There, on the fogged up mirror, someone had written, "DIE SHERLOCK."  Sherlock nodded in appreciation.  John had definitely thought it through, must have used his right hand instead of his dominant left to leave the message, changing how he wrote his letters so that none of them were how he usually wrote.  It was attention to detail that he was not used to from John.  Perhaps he was learning.

As Sherlock walked out of the bathroom, he was hit with a sudden chill.  The flat was considerably colder than it had been when they returned home.  "Very nice touch, John," Sherlock said aloud.  "I'm assuming you opened the windows, turned on a few fans, left the freezer open for a bit?  Well done.  But it's not going to work."  He peered into the living room, half expecting to see John wearing a sheet with two holes cut out for the eyes, but no one was there.

Sherlock did notice however, that the windows were all closed.  John must have remembered to close them.  Another unexpected stroke of insight by him.  "I see what you're doing," Sherlock called out, knowing that John would be nearby to hear him.  "What am I supposed to see next?  A bloody knife? A menacing ghost following behind me, just out of eyesight?"  He whipped around suddenly and saw no one there, but a knife _was_ present.  There, on the floor in front of Sherlock's chair, was a kitchen knife that was covered in blood.  He knelt down to examine it, smell it.  His eyes widened in spite of himself.  It was blood.  Human blood. 

"How did you get the blood?" Sherlock asked aloud, waiting for John to answer.  "I'm rather impressed by all of these steps you've taken, John.  But it's still not going to work.  I know it's you.  I know you're-"

The lights began to flicker and Sherlock again spun around to focus on the light switch, expecting to see John's hand.  But there was no one.  The lights were flickering strangely, randomly.  First, the ones in the living room, then the kitchen, then the bathroom, and then, beneath his closed bedroom door, Sherlock could see the flickering coming from in there.  It was as though he were being summoned into his bedroom. 

"John!" Sherlock called out.  "I'm not completely sure of how you're behind this, but I _know_ you are.  And you're trying to lure me into my bedroom where I'm sure I'll find something that is supposed to scare me.  But you should know me well enough to know that it's not going to work."

"Oi! Sherlock!" came John's voice, clearly from outside of the flat, coming from the stairwell.  "Are you finally out of the shower so I can get in there?  I'm assuming you used up all of the hot water too, you arse."

Then footsteps on stairs.  John was not in Sherlock's bedroom.

Then creaks from ahead of him.  Someone else was. 

The hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck began to stand up as he slowly began to move towards his bedroom door, each footstep of his own heavy with trepidation.  "A fantastic job you've done, John," Sherlock said, though he could not shake the foreboding feeling that whatever lay behind this door would not be John's doing.   "You know you aren't fooling me.  I know that whatever is in my bedroom will be there to scare me.  It won't work."  He hoped his voice sounded as brave as he was trying to make it sound.

With growing unease, Sherlock turned the doorknob to his bedroom and stepped inside.  He couldn't help himself.  He gasped at the sight.  Blood on his walls.  Blood on his bed sheets.  The door slammed shut suddenly behind him and Sherlock backed up from it, his eyes wide and scanning the room.  How had John managed to do all of this?  It was beyond anything the man was capable of doing. Another creak from behind him. 

Sherlock was frozen to the spot, wondering what he was supposed to do, when he heard it.  Heavy breathing and whispering.  Coming from somewhere in his room... But where?  Two different places.  Near his closet and near his bed.  But how was any of this possible?  Inching towards the bed, the breathing became louder, and louder.

A hand from beneath the bed reached out and grabbed Sherlock's ankle tightly and he shrieked aloud.  "John!" he cried out, not because he thought John was involved with any of this anymore, but to alert him to the danger, that there was a... presence in the room, and that his best chance of getting out of this was John.  It was always John who rescued him.

It was also John, as it happened, who opened the bedroom door, laughing loudly.  He stumbled in and collapsed onto Sherlock's bed, completely incapacitated by the force of his laughs.  Another laugh came from beneath the bed as Mrs. Hudson relinquished her hold of Sherlock's ankle and crawled out.

"You!" Sherlock said in astonishment, looking back and forth between them.  "How did you... Explain!" 

"Why?" John asked, finally able to get control of himself enough to regain the ability of speech.  "So you can try and say that you knew it was me all along?  It didn't sound like that.  Just admit it, Sherlock.  You were scared.  For the shortest moment, you believed that it was something else.  Something that _couldn't_ be explained."

"I will admit nothing! Now tell me!"   Sherlock was furious, embarrassed, and humiliated. This was something John should have expected.

"You take forever in the shower so as soon as you were in there, I ran downstairs, filled in Mrs. H, and we got to work," John bragged. " You have questions.  Ask them."

The role reversal was maddening.  Usually, John was asking Sherlock the questions and Sherlock was showing off and being impressive.  He did not like being on this end of it at all. 

"The blood," Sherlock said suddenly, wanting that answered first.  "Where did the blood come from?"

"Which blood?" John asked, unable to keep the smile from his face.  He was truly pleased with and proud of himself.  "The blood on the knife? Please, Sherlock.  You keep a seemingly endless supply in the fridge.  The blood on the sheets and walls?  That was Mrs. Hudson."

"It will come out with a good scrubbing," she said cheerfully.

"The lights!" Sherlock said suddenly.  "How did you make the lights flicker?" 

"You can work this one out," John said, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back against Sherlock's bed, enjoying himself tremendously.   "Think of who I had helping us."

Mrs. Hudson smiled again and gave Sherlock a little wave.  He groaned at how obvious it was.  "The fuse box.  In the basement.  You were down there manipulating the lights."

"Of course I was," John said proudly.  "And then ran up the stairs and called to you from the landing so you'd know I wasn't in the flat anymore."

"The heavy breathing was Mrs. Hudson, obviously.  But the whispers?"  Sherlock quieted himself.  He could still hear them coming from the closet.  He moved towards it and saw, leaning against it, John's cell phone, a recording of whispers behind played on loop.  "That was rather smart," Sherlock conceded before he threw John's phone at him.

"Admit it," John said, completely at ease.  "I had you for a second."

"I will not admit it."

"Sherlock..."

"No."

Mrs. Hudson patted John's arm.  "It's alright, dear," she said to him.  "We know the truth even if he is too stubborn to admit it."

Sherlock's nostrils flared as glared at them both, so pleased with themselves at his expense.  "Out of my room! Both of you! Out!"

Mrs. Hudson left quickly before Sherlock's temper got the better of him, but John moved slowly, wanting to milk the moment for all it was worth. 

"Bewaaaare the ghost of 221beeeee!" he said dramatically, before closing the door and running to the bathroom before Sherlock could do anything. 

Unfortunately for John, Sherlock was already plotting his revenge.  He picked up his phone and called Angelo's, ready to employ every resource he had to frighten John Watson in retaliation.


	9. Ghost Stories - Anne

Hamish had a special relationship with his papa. They had always been close, but they had become even closer when Dad had died. 

 

He could still remember his dad, and all of his memories were painted over in bright colors by Papa’s vibrant stories about the adventures of one brilliant Sherlock Holmes. One brilliant Sherlock Holmes who had jumped. 

 

But they never talked about that. They talked about how Sherlock always waited for someone else to make him tea (Mrs. Hudson or John), how he often lounged in bed for a whole week, but never slept while he was on a case, how he loved candy and biscuits and ice cream, how brilliant and kind he was, especially when John was watching. 

 

When Hamish got older, John told him about how he had fallen in love with Sherlock. The story came slowly, in drab, clipped parts, unlike the other stories which seemed saturated with action and laughter and explosive fighting. 

_He always took me out to dinner. To nice places. Always paid. Never told me they were dates, of course._

 

Perhaps it was because the story of how John had fallen for Sherlock was special. 

 

_I had never thought that I could ever love a man so much, but your father wasn’t just any man. He was the best man I have ever known and I owe him my life._

 

Perhaps it was because the story of how John had fallen for Sherlock was too painful. 

 

_I think of him every day. When I wake up, part of me still expects him to be there, even though it’s been so long… I still remember the sound of his voice, the texture of his hair. There were things I wanted to say, that I didn’t say…_

 

John’s love story couldn’t simply flow out freely like all the other moments, especially given the current circumstances. 

_To be honest, Hamish, I knew as soon as I saw him that he was the one. Took him a bit longer, dolt that he is._

 

Hamish didn’t see his papa cry until he was seven and then it seemed like he was crying all the time. How hadn’t he noticed it before? While his papa was conscientious, present, and endlessly loving, he was also sad. 

 

Hamish was sad too. 

 

He saw Sherlock everywhere. Walking down the London streets in the summer, peering into his classroom windows, and zooming by on the platform to the tube; his father’s was a ghostly face that appeared and then vanished. Vanished for a long time. Almost a year and a half. 

 

And then the ghost materialized. Into bones and blood and skin.

 

“Get out. Sherlock,  _get out_. Go back to wherever you were. Or jump off another bloody building, for all I care. Just leave me and my son alone.” John was angry and hurt, his face suddenly full of lines again, wrinkles Sherlock had cruelly carved into once youthful skin with his absence. 

 

“My son.” 

 

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

 

“Well, he’s technically my son, John, as I’m sure you remember. My biological material. Mine and your sister’s.” A heavy fist smashed into Sherlock’s face at that. Sherlock’s pale eyes widened with a sudden animal fear of physical harm, and then a deeper, more heartbreaking fear. A fear of being forever lost. 

 

“You’re not here, Sherlock. You can’t be here. You died, remember? You’re a ghost.” 

 

“I’m right here…” 

 

“You—You left me. You abandoned… You abandoned me and our child.” Voice broken. Body broken. Heart broken. John crumpled to the floor. His jaw was locked, his eyes brimming with anger and distrust and so much love that Hamish wished he could swim in it. Papa hadn't had that expression in his eyes since Sherlock had left. 

 

“Couldn’t risk it… Couldn’t risk you and Hamish.” 

 

“Two years, Sherlock. _Two years._ ” Sherlock stroked John’s hair when the fire seemed to have momentarily abated, pulling him closer and closer and closer until they were one tangled mess of bones and blood and skin.

 

“I’m not dead.” 

 

Hamish watched from the door way for a long time, his stuffed bear hanging in one of his hands. And then his dad noticed him. 

 

Sherlock’s face was harsh, and had always been harsh, with those striking blue eyes of his and the strong lines of his cheekbones cutting through the creamy paleness. The ghost slowly untangled himself form his husband, his eyes wide and full of longing and then Sherlock Holmes stumbled over to his son.

 

“Hamish…” Long arms wrapped around the boy and held him so tight that he could barely breathe for a moment. Tears stained his cheeks, and wet the collar of his pajamas, and mixed with spit and snot on his face as well as on his father’s. 

 

He couldn’t speak at first. Words were beyond his capacity. After all, Sherlock was Hamish's ghost story come to life. Bones, blood, skin… 


	10. Carving Pumpkins - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's (YESTERDAY'S ACTUALLY D= Trying to get up-to-date by tomorrow. My crazy weekend ruined everything for everyone ever!) prompt is: Carving Pumpkins.

“He's just enthusiastic,” John said, staring down at the two carved pumpkins they had just found on their doorstep.  
  
“John, he's insane,” Sherlock said. 

John made a face and tilted his head to the side. An awful lot of time must have gone into the pumpkins. He didn't know how anyone could get that amount of facial details into the hard shell of the fruit. He wondered how many pumpkins it had taken before these two perfect ones had happened. He had to admit, it did seem pretty insane.  
  
“They're so... lifelike. You even have your deerstalker on,” John said, pointing at the pumpkin that depicted Sherlock in profile.  
  
“Ah yes, the death Frisbee. I wish people would stop using that photo of me. Now the insanity has spread on to innocent fruit” Sherlock said.   
  
“I didn't get a hat,” John said.  
  
“No, you don't look good in hats. At least he still has the sense to see that,” Sherlock said.  
  
“What? I _do_ look good in hats. I have the right head shape for it. You just look...” John said, waving his hand in front of him as if that would find the right descriptive word.  
  
“Yes, John?” Sherlock said. It was clear that if John used the wrong word now there would be consequences. Sherlock already decided to withhold on the sexual act that made John make that high pitched noise that left him blushing for the rest of the day.   
  
“Never mind.”  
  
“That's what I thought.”

Sherlock had to admit that despite the insanity of it, Pumpkin John looked very handsome. He liked that their faces had been carved to face each other. As it should be. And now that Sherlock was studying them closer, he saw that John's head was carved just a little lower on his pumpkin, giving the illusion that Pumpkin Sherlock was just a bit higher up. Well, it wasn't an illusion. That was just great attention to detail.  
  
Maybe Sherlock was wrong. Maybe insane wasn't the word.  
  
“I'm starting to think I was wrong about him,” Sherlock said.  
  
“What?” John said.   
  
“Anderson. He's made you look shorter than me in a pumpkin. That shows he has a great attention to detail. Maybe he wasn't as useless as I remember at crime scenes,” Sherlock said.  
  
John snorted. “Growing on you, is he? All it took was him carving pumpkins with our faces on and leaving them by our door to make you reconsider his value? Christ, Sherlock. Maybe you're both insane,” he said.  
  
Sherlock huffed and dramatically turned down the street, his coat billowing behind him. He didn't have to take that sort of abuse from John when he was famous enough to have a fan carve his face on a pumpkin.


	11. Carving Pumpkins - golfechoromeo

  
[21:02]  What are you doing? SH

[21:03]  I'm out.  Why? JW

[21:06]  Out where?  SH

[21:08]  The pub.  JW

[21:12]  Never mind.  SH

[21:13]  Sherlock, what's going on?  JW

[21:16]  I don't want to ruin your evening.  SH

[21:16]  Oh, come off it.  Since when do you ever care about ruining my nights?  JW

[21:20]  I will talk to you tomorrow.  SH

[21:20]  Are you alright?  JW

[21:25]  Fine. SH

[21:25]  Sherlock, what's going on?  JW

[21:27]  Nothing, John.  I will be fine.  SH

[21:28]  Is it a danger night?  JW

[21:33]  Sherlock?  JW

[21:36]  Answer me right now or I'm coming over.  JW

[21:37]  I don't know how to quiet my mind.  SH

[21:37]  Right.  I'm coming over.  JW

[21:38]  Door's unlocked.  SH

 

John left the pub, said goodnight to his friends, completely ignored the woman who had been chatting him up, and tore off down the street, running as fast as his feet could take him.  There hadn't been a danger night in a while which was why John could tell there was something off about Sherlock's texts.  Usually, he would complain and whine and pester John until he got his way.  It was when Sherlock said to "never mind" that John was alerted to the gravity of the situation.

When Sherlock had moved out of his dorm a few months earlier and into his flat on Baker Street, he had been thrilled, finally excited to live alone.  John loved having a place to go where there was just peace and quiet (at least when Sherlock wasn't blowing something up _for science_ ).  He loved his roommates, but there was something nice about Sherlock's flat that pulled him there and it was more than just the deep crush he harboured for the mad genius. 

There was only one indicator that perhaps Sherlock was not as joyous with the new accommodations as he had originally thought.  He had started making frequent comments about finding a flatmate, something that made John bristle with jealousy every time. 

"But you like being on your own," he would say whenever Sherlock brought up the subject.

"Yes, but being on my own too long a time makes me get caught up in my own head," Sherlock would reply, sighing dramatically for emphasis.  
  
John hated the idea of someone living with Sherlock, someone invading his personal space and the little area of refuge John had when he needed it.  221b Baker Street would lose all of its charm if a stranger moved in.  Usually after these conversations, John would find an excuse to go back to his shared flat with his friends, taking the long way home to walk and work out his thoughts which usually ended up in confusing and disturbing images of Sherlock shagging whoever moved in with him.  
  
But this was the downside of Sherlock living by himself.  His loneliness would creep in and pull him under and the last thing John wanted was for him to use.  Sherlock needed a roommate, as much as it would drive John mad.  A roommate could keep Sherlock safe.  
  
When he arrived to the flat, John bounded up the stairs, wanting desperately to make sure that Sherlock was still in one piece and had not succumbed to any urges.  He threw open the door and found Sherlock curled in a ball in his armchair, but there was no evidence of any needles.  John's chest loosened slightly in relief.   
  
"Sherlock," he said.  "You alright?"  The mop of dark curly hair nodded and John allowed himself a small smile as he moved forward.  "Come on," he said, tugging lightly at Sherlock's crossed arms.  "I'm here now.  Open up.  We'll do something to get your mind off everything."  
  


"Like what?  You don't like doing experiments," Sherlock grumbled, still curled tightly in on himself.

"Not the way you do them," John said.  "I learned my lesson the hard way when you had me sample different types of mould."

"Perfectly harmless." 

"To you."

Sherlock sighed and his muscles relaxed as he lifted his head to look at John.  This time, the rest of John's body loosened completely in relief.  Sherlock had not used.  His eyes were not foggy, but crystal clear and focused.  John had made it in time. 

"What do you suggest then?" Sherlock asked with all of the impatience that he could muster and John, for once, was not irked by the tone.  He was happy that Sherlock was still himself enough to give attitude like that.

"We could do something festive," John said.  "Mrs. Hudson filled your flat with pumpkins to decorate it."

"Against my wishes."

"Against your wishes," John conceded.  "We could... I don't know... carve them.  That'll take your mind off things and keep your brain and your hands busy."

Sherlock snorted.  "Carve pumpkins?  That's childish."

"We can give the insides to Mrs. H and have her make you sweets from them."

The wheels in Sherlock's head started turning as he thought of the wide array of foods that could be his the following day.  "Alright," he said.  "But I'm not doing this for you.  I'm doing it for the sweets."

"Of course you are," John said, fighting the urge to smile.

 

It was a messy affair.  John learned that if the knowledge of how to carve a pumpkin had ever existed in Sherlock's brain, it had definitely been deleted.  Each step of the process was new to him and each part fascinated him wildly.  John had hoped that his pumpkin would turn out better than Sherlock's as a result of the brainiac's lack of experience, but it was in vain.  Sherlock's jack-o-lantern was flawless while John had made a few mistakes and part of his pumpkin had a gaping hole in the side. 

Taking two small candles off the mantle and putting them inside the pumpkins, John lit them as Sherlock ran to turn the lights off.  The orange glow from inside the hollowed gourds softly illuminated the flat, sending flickers dancing on the walls and the floor.  Beyond that, the room was pitch black.

John heard Sherlock release a quiet breath as they watched the candles flicker behind their carvings. 

"Thank you."

The words were no louder than a whisper and if John didn't know better, he would have thought he imagined them.

"You're welcome," he replied, nodding to himself.

"Do you have to leave?" Sherlock asked, his voice very careful and reserved, as though each word were being selected with the same great care that he had used to carve the pumpkin.

John grinned.  "I can stay tonight.  I was planning on doing that anyway."

A pause.   A bracing breath.

"What about after tonight?"

John froze.  "Sherlock?"

"I thought I had made myself clear by complaining about not having a flatmate and you're ignoring of my comments meant that you didn't want to move in with me, but I am going to ask formally now."  Sherlock's words had definitely been practised and rehearsed.  They had a stilted air to them, but it in no way diminished John's reaction to them.

"You want me to move in here?" he asked, his mouth hanging open.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, unable to keep an impatient huff from his words.  "Why do you think I always bring it up when you're around?"

John's mouth was still hanging open in shock and words to say in this situation did not come to mind.

"I trust you and think that us becoming flatmates would be beneficial to us both," Sherlock continued, the pace of them speeding up so he could cut to the chase and get a definitive answer from John once and for all.  "So I will ask you once more and then never again if you wish it.  Do you want to move in with me?"

John nodded and then mentally called himself an idiot since it was too dark for Sherlock to see him.  "Yeah," he said, wondering when he had started smiling since his cheeks were starting to hurt from it.  "Of course I will.  When can I move in?"

"I think you already have," Sherlock said and John could hear the relief and the happiness in his voice, as though the danger night had never happened to begin with or was nothing more than a nightmare.  They stood like that for some time in silence, both of them smiling, turning from the carved pumpkins to each other.


	12. Carving Pumpkins - Anne

Sherlock was sprawled out on John’s bed, resting his head contently in John’s lap. John was working furiously, scrawling out the beginnings of a Biology lab report, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from dozing, as long as John didn’t upset his head too much. 

 

“How do you never have any work?” 

 

“I do my work. Well, some of my work. I do the important things.” The amount of work that Sherlock deemed important was dwindling as the semester dragged on, and he was sure this would be reflected in his transcript, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care. That didn’t mean he didn’t admire John’s conscientiousness. It was actually inspiring, in a vague sort of way that never really took root within him.

 

“Important things? Like what?” Like dozing in John’s lap. Obviously. Still, Sherlock couldn’t exactly say that. His best friend wouldn’t know how to process the information and then he would get angry and then Sherlock wouldn’t be allowed to cuddle with him anymore. 

 

“Hm… Chemistry… Research… Pumpkin carving.” 

 

“Pumpkin carving?” John couldn’t contain a loud guffaw. 

 

Sherlock honestly hadn’t been able to think of anything else, and he turned a bright red at John’s reaction. He had to be more careful with his words of his reputation would crumble completely. 

 

God, where had that come from? Ah… The pumpkins adorning the dining halls and lecture halls must have given him the idea.

 

“Yes. I happen to be a master pumpkin carver.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Yes, of course.” John considered his claim for a minute or so, weighing the likelihood that Sherlock Holmes had any idea how to carve a pumpkin. 

 

“I don’t believe you. I’m getting you a pumpkin. Right now.”

 

“John…” Sherlock whined, grouchy from being unceremoniously jerked out of John’s lap. “Are you really going to buy a pumpkin just to try and prove me wrong?” 

 

“No, of course not. I’m going to steal one.” 

 

 

And steal a pumpkin they did, hearts racing and blood running cold. (It wasn’t really stealing, was it? Their tuition had to more than cover the cost. What did the dining hall want with a decorative pumpkin anyway?) The large orange orb was snatched quickly and pressed up against John’s back as they darted for the exit. And then, of course, someone had seen them (the pumpkin really was very large) and they had sprinted to the second exit, jumped down a flight of stairs and escaped into the night with their prize intact. 

 

Of course, they were both so exhausted that neither of them got around to carving it. The pumpkin rested on John’s desk, and Sherlock rested in John’s lap once more, now deeply asleep. John watched him, and had been watching him for close to an hour, his notebooks pushed aside and abandoned. The aspiring doctor couldn’t help himself; he knew what Sherlock meant when he said he did the important things.


	13. Princess - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth prompt of A Very Johnlock Halloween is: Princess

“All right there, Princess?” A chorus of laughter sounded.

Sherlock was on the ground, his notebooks in a puddle and his uniform torn open by the brick wall he'd been pushed into. He glared into the ground as he started to collect his things. He wanted to yell at them, to tell them all the nasty things he could deduce about them but he knew he would only make it worse for himself. The last thing he wanted was for the bullying to get worse.  
  
As usual, John Watson stood in the back, his arms crossed and his face drawn to a frown. He was looking the other way.   
  
Sherlock hated him more than the other boys. Mostly because he didn't hate him at all. John sometimes talked to him and was nice, funny, not as stupid as the other boys and handsome. John never joined in the bullying but always looked away. And somehow that felt worse.  
  
He definitely hated John more than any of them.

Sherlock har just gathered up his soaked notebooks when they were kicked out of his hand again. The foot collided with his wrist and he called out in surprise and pain. He looked up, his glare fixing on a tall, arrogant boy who had every single word Sherlock was about to unleash on him coming.   
  
“That's enough!”   
  
Sherlock twitched. He hadn't said a word yet.   
  
“What?” the boy he was staring at said, looking as surprised as Sherlock felt.  
  
“Enough. You'll break his fucking wrist. You'll be expelled. Is that what you want? You stupid arsehole.”  
  
It was John speaking. Speaking _furiously_. His hands were fisted in tight balls at his sides and  he looked far angrier than what his words were expressing. If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd had said that John was angry about something else than the thought of his friend getting expelled.

“Fine. See ya, Princess Snow White. I hope you choke on an apple.” Another chorus of laughter.

All but one pair of feet walked away.  
  
“Go away,” Sherlock said. He didn't want the one person he hated the most because he didn't hate him at all to see him like this any longer than he had to.   
  
“No. You okay?” John said.   
  
Sherlock didn't reply. What a stupid question to ask someone who had just been shoved into a brick wall, laughed at and then kicked. Maybe John wasn't as smart as he'd thought he was.   
  
“Here,” John said, picking Sherlock's notebooks up and offering a hand to help him stand.  
  
“I said, _go away_ ,” Sherlock said. Only the annoyance of John helping him made him able to stand back up as gracefully as he did and grab his notebooks back from John.  
  
” _No!_ ” John snapped. “Your hand is bleeding and I'm going to help you fucking clean it so just _shut up and follow me_.” He turned and started walking to the toilets.  
  
Sherlock glared at John's back, even more pissed off now that John had noticed something he had not and hadn't even given him the chance to say no to his face. He followed.  
  
The halls echoed in their emptiness. All the other students had gone home for the day and the confused, hormonal energy that usually flooded the halls was strangely condensed around the lone two boys. 

They entered the restroom in silence and John tore paper towels from its holder and wet it under the tap. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and dabbed at the cut ever so gently.  
  
Sherlock hissed. It stung.   
  
“Sorry,” John murmured.   
  
Sherlock grunted. What it did matter if John was sorry about making his hand sting?  
  
“I mean I'm sorry about... never... I hate the way they treat you. I don't know what to do. I hate it,” John said, the words tumbling out of his mouth uncomfortably. It sounded like he had waited so long to say them that it went against his instincts to let them go.

Sherlock said nothing. He didn't know what to say.   
  
John dabbed the wound clean in silence.   
  
“There. Maybe you could put a plaster on it at home,” John said quietly. The air had gone out of him. Sherlock hadn't forgiven him like he'd hoped, but what right had he had to hope for that? He didn't deserve it. “Sorry again. Really I am,” he said.  
  
He threw the bloodied towel away and walked toward the door.   
  
“John.”  
  
John stopped and turned around. For one short moment he let hope flood him and shine bright. Then he shut it down. “Yeah?” he said.   
  
“Why don't you know what to do?” Sherlock said.  
  
“I dunno,” John said. He was young, stupid and a coward, maybe.  
  
“You  _dunno_ ,” Sherlock said scornfully.  
  
“No wait, I just... I don't want them getting funny ideas,” John said. He looked so distressed that Sherlock almost felt sorry for him. But he didn't.  
  
“Funny ideas? Like what? That you like  _the princess_ ? That you want to be  _his prince?_ That's an hilarious idea, John, as I would never be your princess nor let you be my prince,” Sherlock said. He blinked hard to counteract the burning in his eyes. 

John had the sense to look ashamed of himself. It was exactly what he feared. The torment Sherlock had to endure was not something he wanted for himself. But he wanted it as little for Sherlock.

“Are you really gay?” John asked.   
  
“What's it to you?” Sherlock snapped.  
  
“Just wondering. If you are,” John said.  
  
“I am. Not that it matters. The body is only transport. No one is of any interest to me. Academia is what counts,” Sherlock said.  
  
“You are?” John said. There was something in his voice that made the bite of Sherlock's tone disappear.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly. He narrowed his eyes and scanned John's body. Nervous, twitchy. A little flushed. The look on his face was almost... Happy? Hopeful? Sherlock took a breath and let his defenses down. The next thing he had to say had to be completely free from any sarcasm, irony or snark or John would never answer truthfully. “Are you?”  
  
John shook his head. Blood started to creep up Sherlock's neck and to his cheeks. He was an idiot and he had never hated John more in his life.  
  
“I think I'm... both. Can you be both at the same time? I like girls but I also like you. I mean boys.” John's eyes widened and his lips parted. He started to shake his head again, trying to remove what he'd just said.

Sherlock was staring back at John, just as wide eyed and lip parted.  __  
  
You.  
  
“Me,” Sherlock said.

John had to stop shaking his head. He couldn't lie.   
  
Sherlock took the silence and the complete lack of argument as agreement that, yes, _him.  
  
_ “You like me,” he said. Something wild was exploding in his chest. Butterflies and something so warm it was almost hot and it made his lips turn up in a smile.   
  
“Please, don't...” John whispered.   
  
“Don't what?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Tell anyone.” It was humiliating enough that Sherlock knew that he had feelings for him.  
  
“Oh, you want to keep our relationship secret,” Sherlock said. His heart plummeted from his chest to somewhere below his belly button.  
  
“Our...” John said.  
  
“Relationship?” Sherlock said. “Isn't that what two people who like each other enter into? Together?”  
  
John stared opened mouthed at Sherlock again. “You...”  
  
“Me? Me what, John?” Sherlock said.  
  
“Okay,” John said.  
  
“Okay _what,_ John?” Sherlock said, getting irritated with his boyfriend now.  
  
“Okay, I'll... do that. Be your... thing. Boyfriend,” John said.   
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes. Had he just asked John to be his boyfriend? Had he missed it? It seemed an important moment in his life to miss. And John had agreed. How frustrating it was to have missed it.  
  
“In secret,” Sherlock said. It would have to do.  
  
John tensed his jaw. _In secret_ was never the type of life he had wanted to live. 

  
“No. Let's just...” he said, wondering if it was worth it to open himself up for attack from the people he had considered his friends.  
  
“What?”   
  
John steeled himself.  
  
“D'youwannagotoaHalloweenpartywithmetomorrow?” he said.   
  
The answer was of course yes. And since they knew they were going to make a splash they decided to make a _great big_ splash with their costumes.  
  
Sherlock had been serious when he'd said that he would never be John's princess or let John be his prince.

He never said anything about the other way around.


	14. Princess - golfechoromeo

"I am _not_ helplethh, John!" a drunk Sherlock shouted as he stumbled into the flat.   
  
"Never said you were," John answered carefully, just as drunk as his boyfriend.  "I just told Greg that I've had to save that delicious arse of yours on far more than one occasion."  
  
"Yeth, and the implicathion ith that I cannot take care of mythelf," Sherlock said in fury as he moved to the cabinet of the kitchen that held the whiskey and poured them each another small glass.  The last thing either of them needed was more alcohol after going out to celebrate Molly's birthday where everyone in attendance had indulged in a bit more alcohol than they were used to.  
  
"Sherlock," John said, trying to keep the hiccups from surfacing through his words.  "You can't stand there and tell me that I haven't saved your neck before."  
  
Sherlock stormed out of the kitchen and thrust the glass into John's hand before sinking into his own armchair, a spectacular pout on his face as he began to sulk.  "I am not thome thort of damthel in dithtrethh."  
  
John couldn't thank the heavens enough that Sherlock's lisp surfaced in full force when he was drunk.  There was something about the clumsiness of his tongue, something so delightful about the imprecise movements of someone who prided himself on how precise he was in everything that he did.  John wanted to kiss Sherlock and to feel that tongue on him, but he knew it would not even be within the realm of possibility until this argument was taken care of and resolved.  
  
"You're not a damsel," John said, taking his seat in his own armchair opposite Sherlock.  "And you're rarely in distress.  But sometimes you need my help.  Even _you_ can't deny that."  
  
"Prepotherouth," Sherlock grumbled as he took a sip of his whiskey and sank lower in his chair.  "That would make you... what?  My knight in thining armour?"  
  
John nodded his head, thinking about the implications and how they pertained to his personality.  "Sounds about right to me," he said with a grin before he took a sip of the whiskey.  "Does that make you my princess who I need to rescue?"  
  


Sherlock glared at John.  "Jutht becauthe I'm a printhethh doeth _not_ mean I need to be rethcued," he said, ice in his voice.  "You've come to my aid, yeth, but I have thaved your thkin too, don't forget.  If I am a printhethh, I am a damn brave one, John Watthon."

"You're right," John said, nodding and taking another sip.  "You have saved my life in more ways than I think you know."  As soon as the words were out, John felt awkward and half wished he could take them back.  Emotions were always a bit difficult for him to verbalise, but they especially took hold of him when he was not suspecting it after he had been drinking.

The words were not missed by Sherlock, drunk as he was.  He nodded and did not draw too much attention to them, knowing that it could make John uncomfortable.  "You owe thith royal highnethh an apology, fair knight," he said with a smile.

John smiled back, seeing the opportunity for this to be the resolution to their argument, and also an opportunity for something else.  "Yes of course, your majesty.  Shall I get on my knees to apologise?" 

Sherlock's mouth hung open as his drunk mind processed what John was implying and he nodded.  "Yeth," he whispered.  "On your kneeth."

John slid off his chair and moved forward, crawling on this knees to Sherlock, his hands reaching out greedily for his trousers.  "Yes, your highness.  Please accept my most sincere apology.  Do my lips need to persuade you?"

"Yeth," Sherlock breathed, anticipation lighting up every nerve in his body.  His hands moved down to meet John's to help him with the zipper and to push his trousers and pants down, his quickly hardening cock rising up.  "Perthuade me, handthome knight."

John licked his lips before plunging them down around Sherlock's cock, feeling it fully harden between them.  Humming in pleasure at the feel, he began to bob his head up and down, the alcohol in his system making his inhibition loosen greatly.  Also his technical skill.  Sherlock didn't seem to mind, however.  He began to push his hips up excitedly, gently fucking John's mouth, the two of them working in tandem.

"God, that feelth tho good," Sherlock moaned, sliding lower into his chair.  "Chritht, John.  Yeth.  _Yeth_."

John couldn't help himself; Sherlock's drunk lisp was far too delectable.  Fumbling with his own trousers, he managed to get them down enough to free his cock which was starting to ache with arousal.  He began to stroke himself, and let out a moan of almost painful relief around Sherlock's cock as how good it felt. 

His hand worked himself at the same pace as his mouth, bringing them closer to climax together.  It helped that Sherlock continued to talk through it all.  John thanked his good fortune that Sherlock couldn't even stop his mouth from running either when drunk or aroused.  The mad genius loved hearing himself talk, a trait that persevered no matter what.

"Fuck, John, yeth, don't thtop," he was panting, and John could tell by the high pitched moans that were starting to creep in that Sherlock was getting close.  And knowing that made John's cock throb even more.  He wouldn't be too far behind.

"Yeth, yeth my...my knight... John. Yeth. _Yeth. Yeth!"_   Sherlock came hard as he thrusted himself into John's mouth, another high pitched sound almost like a squeal emitting from him.  John was able to keep himself together long enough to swallow down the come before he gave himself over to his own impending orgasm, coming with a soft moan as he pulled his lips from Sherlock's cock.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, John and Sherlock both breathing heavily, their minds trying to focus on what had just occurred, but the alcohol and rush of hormones made it especially challenging. 

"Tho," Sherlock said eventually, as he tried to sit up.  "Bed?"

John nodded as groggily brought himself to his feet.  "Can I take my princess to bed?"

"Yeth, you may," Sherlock said, rubbing his eyes.  "And don't get any ideath about Halloween cothtumeth now."

"Wouldn't dream of it," John said as he yawned, taking Sherlock's hand to lead him to their bedroom.  He wouldn't have to dream up costumes at all.  All he needed to do was mention it to Mrs. Hudson and she would fashion them both the finest princess and knight costumes in all of London.  John already knew that he would be getting on his knees and apologising again for that.  He didn't seem to mind and he didn't think Sherlock would either.


	15. Princess - Anne

Usually, John could control his friend Sherlock fairly well in terms of keeping him within exceptional standards of weirdness. Usually. Sherlock’s classmates still made fun of him, which John hated, but he liked to think he was doing Sherlock some good by at least alerting him to societal expectations, even if the young genius ultimately chose to ignore them.

None of John’s knowledge about Sherlock Holmes had properly prepared him to deal with this latest surprise. Sherlock was… dressed as a princess. He was grinning from ear to ear, a blond wig poorly fitted to his head and his blue gown already collecting dust as it dragged on the ground behind him.

“Sherlock, you can’t go as that,” John blurted out in protest, his face blushing with embarrassment. Okay… he still didn’t like correcting Sherlock, mostly because Sherlock was a good arguer, and John didn’t like losing arguments to him. But he had no choice this time. He had to protect his best friend from his own ignorance.

“What?” Sherlock asked in an unmistakably hurt voice. “Why not?”

“Whaddya mean, why not? You’re a boy. You can’t dress up as a princess! I’m dressing up as a knight!” he exclaimed, gesturing to his own too big helmet and wooden sword. 

“But it'th Halloween, John! I can dreth up ath anything I want. Bethideth, if you’re drething up ath a knight, then we match,” Sherlock insisted, his voice rising with both anger and excitement. Only Sherlock’s voice could do that in John’s personal experience. It was one of his favorite things about his best friend, the terrifying intensity that the young genius could manufacture and maintain for longer than any mortal should be able to.

“The other kids are just going to make fun of you,” he offered in explanation. Sherlock’s face darkened in response, and John could see a future tantrum brewing. Tears, snot, kicking, screaming, the whole works. He didn’t like it when Sherlock cried, but this was important.

“Tho let them make fun of me!” the six year old exclaimed, wig falling further askew as he tossed his head angrily. He didn’t understand what he was doing wrong and John knew he didn’t understand. Sherlock would never understand. John was honestly beginning to wonder how much it mattered. “Will you thill go trick-or-treating with me?” Sherlock asked tentatively, his voice more than a little wobbly at this point.

“Sherlock, of course I’ll go trick-or-treating with you.” John scrambled over to Sherlock to hug him, getting momentarily caught up in the fabric of the dress and having to untangle himself to pull away.

“Promithe?”

“Of course I promise.”

“’Kay, good,” the younger boy muttered, sniffling. Apparently a few tears had escaped after all. With that, Sherlock hiked up his dress and headed towards the front door. “We gotta go to school now, John.” His voice was strong and confident, even though John knew Sherlock was still confused and nervous for the day to come now that he knew something was wrong with his costume.

“After you, your majesty,” John teased, extending his arm for Sherlock like he had seen dashing men do for beautiful women in the movies. Sherlock clearly hadn’t seen the same movies, because he grabbed John’s hand roughly instead and began swinging it back and forth.

“After thchool, I have my nap and then I’m going to read and do experimenth and then Mummy thaid you’re going to come over and we’re going to eat thpaghetti and meatballth for dinner and then we’re going to go trick-or-treating at thix thirty until eight o’clock and then you’re going to come back home for a thleepover and we’re going to eat popcorn and candy and watch movieth and make a fort in the living room and have a pillow fight and tell thcary thtorieth until really, really late, maybe even midnight.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been up until midnight.”

“I have. Mummy doethn’t like it when I do, though.”

“I don’t think my mummy would like it very much either,” John offered in commiseration. He was much happier now that Sherlock was relaxed again. More relaxed, at the very least. Sherlock did keep sporadically sending him anxious looks that John always met with a mixture of concern and reassurance.

“I’ll see you after school?” John asked when they finally had to part to attend their respective classes.

“ _Of courthe_ ,” Sherlock replied in an arrogant voice. Why wouldn’t John see him after school? John would _always_ see him after school, no matter how hard the day was. Sherlock would always be there. 

“Okay… Good.” They both knew John was relieved to be spending the night at Sherlock’s, although his home life wasn’t something that the two young boys really discussed. At Sherlock’s, it was at least guaranteed that he would get a good meal and a comfortable night’s sleep. “I like your costume, Sherlock,” John turned to add, yelling to Sherlock as he jogged off to class.

In response, Sherlock stood up straighter, raised his chin into the air, and grinned.


	16. Angel/Devil - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Today's prompt is: Angel/Devil!

_Angles live in the sky but_ sometimes they are mean like demons becau  
  
The pen was tugged out of John's hand and he heard Sherlock shouting at him. It made him tear up and cross his arms over his chest.  
  
“It'th not thpelled that way John! That'th _wrong. Why are you crying! Thtop crying!”_ Sherlock said, starting to cry himself.  
  
They were in Sherlock's room because they'd been too rowdy in the kitchen and Mycroft had been so distracted from his school work that Mrs. Holmes had sent them away. She was glad Mycroft had complained because she had been trying to work on some research for her book and the screaming children around her had not been helping  
  
” _Thtop crying right now!_ ” Sherlock shouted. He went to grab the paper John had been writing on.  
  
“No!” John shouted back. He took the paper before Sherlock could and hugged it to his chest. “That's mine!”  
  
“It'th _wrong_!”  Sherlock shouted. He couldn't let it go. It had to be fixed before he could let it go and then John would stop crying and Sherlock could stop crying. He tried to take the paper from John again and ripped a piece off. It wasn't the bit with the offending spelling mistake and it made Sherlock howl in frustration.  
  
“Stop! That's mine!” John said. He stood up and ran to the other side of the room.  
  
Sherlock howled again. He didn't like that John had run away from him. He didn't like it at all. It reminded him of when the other boys at school teased him by inviting him to play and then running away when he came over to join in their games. John had never run away from him and now he was running away.  
  
“Thtop! Thtand thtill! It'th _wrong_ ,” Sherlock said, shouting the last word as loudly as he could because John not handing over the piece of paper had to mean that John hadn't heard him properly. Surely if John knew it was wrong he would want it corrected?  
  
“It's not wrong! It's mine! It's my story! It's my story about how angels live in the sky but once one fell over and became a demon and now we celebrate Halloween so other angels don't fall down and get sad because it hurt and then make other people sad so they're not alone!” John said, having to take several breaths to finish his long thought.  
  
“That'th not why we thelebrate Halloween, John!” Sherlock said. He was getting very upset with John being wrong. How could it be so hard for others to be right sometimes? Why was it so hard for them to listen to him when he was trying to correct them and make everything better.  
  
”Shut up! Shut up! It's my story! You can't decide! I hate you!” John shouted. He was outright sobbing now. Heaving sobs, interrupted by quick successions of sniffles.  
  
“No! I hate you! Go away! I never want to thee you again!” Sherlock shouted. He threw the torn off piece of John's paper to the ground and got even angrier when it didn't dramatically fall but wafted down.  
  
John wailed.  
  
“What is going on in here?”  
  
Mrs. Holmes had entered the room, looking around at the two boys who were both reaching critical levels of emotion. She didn't understand what had happened.  
  
“He won't let me fixth it! He jutht wantht to be wrong and I want him to go home, Mummy!” Sherlock shouted, pointing accusingly at John.  
  
“Fix what?” Mrs. Holmes asked.  
  
Sherlock pointed more insistently at John and the paper in his hand.  
  
“May I see, John?” Mrs. Holmes asked.  
  
John was still wailing when he handed the paper over. Mrs. Holmes read it and read it again.  
  
“You're writing a story are you?” she asked.  
  
“ _Yeth and it'th wrong and why can't he thtop being wrong, Mummy!”_ Sherlock said.  
  
John collapsed in a heap on the floor.  
  
”It's my story! It's mine! I hate you!” he said through his sobs.  
  
“There's no need for language like that,” Mrs. Holmes said. She was shocked. She had never heard the boys talking to each other this way. They had been playing together fine all day. No arguing, no crying, no yelling. They'd played board games in the morning, followed by colouring before lunch and then they'd had lunch and a very successful dessert and then they'd run around laughing and....

Oh. No where in the day had there been a nap. They had just been playing non stop and now she had two screaming, hysterical children on her hands.  
  
“Right. Both of you, get in bed,” she said, clapping her hands. John stayed where he was on the floor but curled up in a tight ball. Sherlock did as he was told because he'd made such a fuss over doing what was right and he knew disobeying mummy was wrong. “It's nap time.”  
  
John Watson hated the words “nap time” and cried louder.  
  
“Oh, for heaven's sake. They're acting like little devils because they've not had their nap,” Mycroft said, appearing at the door. He picked John up and deposited him on the bed and then threw a blanket over the pair of them. “You've no one to blame but yourself,” he said, giving his mother a condescending look.  
  
“Yes, thank you, Mikey. You can return to your studying now,” Mrs. Holmes said.  
  
She watched as the boys both cried themselves to an exhausted sleep.  
  
For being such little devils when they were awake they looked terribly like angels when they weren't. 


	17. Angel/Devil - golfechoromeo

Sherlock Holmes did not go out to parties.  He did not like to socialise.  And above all, he certainly did not like to dress up in costume.  At least that was what he told his mother when she called to check in on him Halloween weekend when he was at University.  

"Go out and have a good time," Mrs. Holmes had urged her son.  He was acting too much like Mycroft had when he had gone to school, keeping himself shut away in his room, doing nothing but work.  That was no way to live, especially not at University. 

"And do what?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.  "Drink and not talk to anyone there because no one wants to talk to me?"  He had started to feel sorry for himself and Mrs. Holmes would hear none of that.

"Go put on a costume and just go _out_ ," she said.  "Just this once.  For your father and me, Sherlock.  And if it's truly that awful, I will never pester you again."

"Where am I supposed to get a costume on such short notice?" Sherlock asked, knowing that if he did not go out that night, his mother would never leave him be.

"You'll pull something together.  You're very resourceful," Mrs. Holmes said, trying not to let her relief flood her voice too much.  She knew it would be asking far too much for Sherlock to send her a picture so she did not even push her luck.

When Sherlock was off the phone, he looked towards his closet.  He could pull something together, of course, but he would need to make a stop to get the required accoutrements.  Victor Trevor had invited Sherlock to his house off-campus for a party and since he was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend (or even an acquaintance for that matter), that's where he would be going.  Victor would at least get a kick out of Sherlock's costume, even if no one else did.  After all, it had been Victor who had suggested it in the first place. 

"I can't believe you made me dress up," John groaned, shooting daggers at Mike Stamford beside him. 

"Johnny, it's a Halloween party!" Mike said cheerfully, dressed as an American cowboy.  "You didn't think I'd let you out of the house in your normal clothes, did you?  Even though you basically are just dressed like yourself with some props."

John took a deep breath to keep his temper in check.  Yes, he was wearing a red shirt with red gym shorts, clothes of his own.  But Mike had made a quick trip to a costume shop and purchased devil horns and a tail for John's costume to be complete.  "This is ridiculous," he fumed taking a long sip of his beer. 

"It's _Halloween_ ," Mike said again, as though the holiday alone justified every action and decision.  "If you keep standing there with a scowl on your face, you're not going to have any fun.  Go on and talk to people."

John rolled his eyes and downed the rest of the beer in his cup, moving towards the keg instead of the group of people that was talking and dancing.  The door opened and John heard Victor give a surprised cheer followed by a loud and jovial laugh.  The identity of who had walked in didn't matter.  John didn't care much at all. 

If he were being honest with himself, he didn't think he had a real chance with getting off with anyone at the party.  It was largely in part because his ex-girlfriend had many friends here and he knew that rumours about him would trickle through from person to person so that none of them would probably talk to him at all.  It was why John had been reluctant to go in the first place.  The other reason was because it was clear that everyone else at the party had the same mindset as Mike.  It was Halloween and therefore they needed to go as all-out as possible with their costumes.  John didn't have the money to splurge on something he would wear once for a party with people he didn't care about. 

It was embarrassing, walking into a room filled with people who were dressed to the nines as scientists, movie characters, superheros, ghosts, ghouls, and so many doctors and nurses it made John's head spin.  And there he was.  T-shirt. Shorts. Horns. A tail.  It was pathetic and he decided to chug one last beer and then slip out when Mike wasn't looking.  No one would probably even notice if he left.  He would leave the tail there, though.  It was the most egregious part of his costume.

Someone was standing next to John suddenly at the keg and when he began talking to him, John felt it go straight to his bones. 

"It's almost as if we planned it."

John had never heard any sound quite like it.  The voice was deep and resonant, full and lush.  It struck a chord deep within him and he turned to see who it belonged to, trying to understand the meaning of what had been said.

Next to John was the most attractive person he had ever seen in his life.  Tall, dark curly hair, high pronounced cheekbones.  And he was dressed like an angel.

John's mouth dropped open.

Sherlock held out his cup, expecting John to fill it for him, which he did without question or thought.  "Who are you?" he asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," the young man replied with a smile.  "Less foam.  No need to be careless.  Although that's probably why you've sustained so many injuries on the rugby pitch, by not keeping your eyes where they ought to be." 

John pursed his lips in confusion, but reluctantly moved his eyes back to the cup, seeing that he was making it embarrassingly foamy.  "How did you know I played rugby?" he asked, dumping it out and starting over.  It was much easier to concentrate on what to say now that he wasn't looking at Sherlock. 

"Your build," Sherlock said lazily.  "The scrapes and bruises on your legs and arms.  Your left shoulder was dislocated recently as well.  And you didn't tell me your name."

John straightened himself up and turned back to Sherlock, holding out the cup of beer.  "John Watson," he said.  "And that's brilliant that you know all of that just by looking.  Or did someone here tell you that?"  _And also tell you so much more about me?  Is this all an elaborate prank?_

"I don't know anyone here except for Victor," Sherlock said with a shrug.  "He was kind enough to invite me.  I decided at the last minute to attend so I threw this costume together."

It was barely a costume.  Sherlock was wearing dark jeans, a white button down shirt, and had stopped at a shop on his walk over to buy a halo and wings.  He didn't mind the halo, but the wings were starting to become rather cumbersome.

"You look great," John said and immediately hated himself.  _And you wonder why everyone whispers that you're gay_ , he thought angrily to himself. 

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking surprised.  "You think so?"  It was strange.  There didn't seem to be any hint of irony or sarcasm in John's voice.  It was kind and genuine.  Sherlock wanted to hear more.

"Yeah," John said.  "Way better than I do," he said miserably.

"But you are my counterpart," Sherlock said, trying to infuse John with some of the warmth he was suddenly filled with.  "You had the common sense not to waste your money on something that would get beer spilled on it and based on the way these guests are acting, various body fluids on it as well, rendering it unwearable in the future."

John laughed and felt himself warm to Sherlock even more.  "You know what? You're right. You and I are the only sane ones here, then."  _Who are you and why am I only meeting you for the first time now?_

Sherlock grinned back and felt a rush of pure exhilaration race through him.  He had made someone _laugh_.  Someone was enjoying his company.  And not just anyone.  It was someone older and very attractive who thought Sherlock looked good and was brilliant.  Someone who, as luck would have it, was dressed similarly, leading to a conversation starter, a conversation that Sherlock was desperate to continue.

"Who are you here with?" he asked, hoping that John would not mention any sort of girlfriend or boyfriend or other romantic attachment or possibility. 

"My roommate, Mike," John said.  "But I wasn't planning on staying.  Not really my crowd.  What about you?" 

"I just told you. I don't know anyone else here."

"Oh, right," John said.  _Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot_.

"You weren't planning on staying?" Sherlock asked pointedly, taking a long drink from his cup.

"Well..."  What was John supposed to say?  The truth was that now he wanted to stay there and keep talking to Sherlock.  He chose instead to bide his time by following suit and drinking a third of his beer in one go.  "I'm enjoying your company now," he admitted, keeping eye contact with Sherlock even though he would rather have looked away in anguish. 

That was the answer Sherlock had been hoping for.  "Would you prefer to go somewhere else?  There's a good Chinese stays open 'til two.  You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle." 

John stared in awe at Sherlock, his mouth curving up into a smile.  He was being asked to go get food.  He didn't even notice the looks and the stares and the whispers from the rest of the people around him.  They were looking from John and Sherlock to each other as if to confirm what his ex-girlfriend had suspected: John Watson was gay. 

"Let's go," John said with burning excitement.  "Just... let me do something first."  He unclipped the band around his waist and let the tail fall to the ground.  "Fucking thing's been driving me mad all night."

Sherlock nodded and wiggled out of his angel wings and threw them across the room haphazardly, hitting Mike Stamford in the head, before he took John's hand and pulled him out of the house.  Mike turned to see what had happened, and bit back a beaming smile at scene in front of him. 

"Who was that?" Mike asked, turning to Victor.  "And did you tell him what John was dressing up as?  Are you playing matchmaker again?"

Victor grinned devilishly, but said in his most innocent and angelic tone, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

### 


	18. Angel/Devil - Anne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added a bit late but here it is!

“Mm, you should dress as an angel, Sher. For the sake of irony,” John teased dryly, scanning through the faded pictures of various Halloween costumes plastered to one of the walls of the Halloween store. Sherlock needed a costume if they were really going to go out, and while John had selected a cheap pair of cat ears for himself, he had agreed to look through costumes for his best friend as well. He hadn’t known the process would be so painful. Here they were three hours later and Sherlock still hadn’t picked something.

 

“Hilarious. I’m just… _floored_ by your cleverness,” Sherlock snapped cruelly. He didn’t want to dress up at all, and having to walk through aisles of overpriced, over-glittered, over the top Halloween costumes wasn’t sitting well with him. He _despised_ Halloween, and while John’s presence usually made doing awful things less awful, in this case, it was making the whole costume selection nonsense worse. Mostly because John didn’t understand why Sherlock was being so picky, and Sherlock didn’t understand why John was perfectly okay with letting him dress like a complete fool. 

 

That being said, the music playing in this lovely establishment was all Halloween themed and much too loud and the room was too dark and the bright faux disco lights were giving him a migraine, so he did, in fact, understand John’s haste, even if his understanding wasn’t helping him speed up his process. 

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, just pick a fucking costume so we can get out of here. Ah, here. This is fucking perfect.” John held up a devil costume, the sound of plastic crinkling making the hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand up. “There. You can just be yourself. No need to put on a bloody front, because, _Heaven forbid_ , we wouldn’t want you to be insincere or uncomfortable.” Sherlock stiffened, his eyes narrowed, and he could feel his throat constrict with tearful frustration. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. He was an adult. Well… he was in uni. And it wasn’t as if anything particularly terrible was being inflicted upon him. Sherlock was just picking out a Halloween costume with his best friend in an establishment known for their stock of Halloween costumes. And yet, he could feel the beginnings of a breakdown as it descended upon him like a black storm. 

 

“How about you _fuck off?_  Just _leave_. I can handle this _on my own_ , and you are being an _absolute bother_. I just need it to be quiet… Need _quiet._ ” Sherlock could feel his face getting red with anger and his mind throbbing from the effort of being in the horrid store so long and his heart aching from getting in a fight with John, whom he rarely ever fought with. The young genius threw his hands into the air to indicate his frustration and then brought them down over his ears to block out the noise, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so to block out the lights as well. 

 

John didn’t like that one bit. The animosity in his face melted away instantly and was replaced by extreme worry. He didn’t know Sherlock as well as he wished he did, and he certainly had never seen anything like this from him before. Sherlock’s demeanour was generally cool, broken only by a few choice insults about others that tended to make John smirk to himself and feel superior while doing so, simply because _he_ was the one with the genius whispering into his ear. Admittedly, John had seen Sherlock lose his temper a few times before. It was terrifying, and consisted primarily of screaming and violent flailing and cruelty that flowed forward ceaselessly; each and every time this stream had been directed towards John, the older boy had gone back to his dorm afterwards and cried. Sherlock didn’t mean it… He knew Sherlock didn’t mean it, and somehow that made the abuse tolerable, although he fully intended to chastise Sherlock for lashing out at some point. This, though? What in bloody hell was this? 

 

John froze, suddenly wishing he could take back all his harsh comments. Sherlock was difficult to deal with, but it was clearly John’s responsibility to be patient, even when it was inconvenient.

 

“Hey… Sher… Come here… Let’s get you home, yeah?” Sherlock’s whole body shook, as if waves of pure energy were attempting to break forth from the shell of his skin. “Come on…” He placed a hand to one of Sherlock’s upper arms carefully, and when he received no reaction, he pulled the other boy into a tight hug. 

 

It was odd holding Sherlock… It made John suddenly doubt everything, but not in a bad way. He doubted all the information he had gathered about Sherlock Holmes, he doubted his own solid identity, and he doubted his perception of human nature in general. Sherlock was more complicated than John had ever imagined before, which was really saying something. 

 

He discarded the cheap ears and tossed both the angel costume and the devil costume down onto the tacky orange and black tiles immediately, suddenly uninterested in costumes or parties or Halloween. He was simply worried about Sherlock. What was wrong with Sherlock? 

 

Sherlock clung to John despite himself, and John took the initiative to lead him outside and hail them a cab even though he couldn’t really afford it. 

 

“My apologies,” Sherlock mumbled as they scooted into the back seat, blinking a few times in an attempt to reboot like a computer.

 

“It’s fine. You’re okay. Let’s just get you back to your place.” John hesitantly slid an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and felt an overwhelming warmth when Sherlock melted into his lap at the awkward touch. “You got pretty upset…” he commented in what he hoped was a casual voice, vaguely hoping for some sort of explanation, but doubting that he would receive one. 

 

“Yes, it happens.” Sherlock nuzzled into John’s lap, finally feeling the tightness in his chest abate as the feeling of worn cotton mingled with the smell of John so near to his face. “We never got Halloween costumes,” he added a moment later, trying to ignore the feeling of dread that was instantly kindled at the thought of returning to that stressful situation. 

 

“Eh, didn’t really want to go out.” 

 

“Mm, liar,” Sherlock corrected, turning his head so John could see his weak smile. “You could always go out with your other mates.” 

 

“I could.” 

 

“But?” John shrugged in response, tentatively twisting one of Sherlock’s curls around his pointer finger. Sherlock let out a deep sigh that was pregnant with contentment. 

 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” John asked after a few more minutes of indulging in Sherlock’s soft locks. 

 

Sherlock just laughed, his usually harsh face remarkably soft and sweet. 

 

“Absolutely nothing. Would you like to join me?” 

 

“Yes…” John blushed, gently tracing Sherlock’s cheekbones.

 

“Um… Fine. Good.”

 

“I’ll come over around… ten?” 

 

“Mm, okay.” Sherlock’s eyes slowly shut in relaxation and John took the opportunity to lean forward and press a tender kiss to his forehead. His wonderful Sherlock. His wonderful, vulnerable, gorgeous, lovable Sherlock… 

 

“What was that for?” the young genius teased softly, not bothering to open his eyes. 

 

“Sorry I stressed you out.” 

 

“You didn’t stress me out…” 

 

“Yeah, right,” John muttered sarcastically. He cleared his throat, feeling prickly warmth spread through his body in anticipation of what he was going to say next. God, it was so embarrassing. Sherlock would probably laugh at him. “I just… You should know that I love you.” Sherlock eyelids fluttered open at that, and concerned eyes peered up at John’s face in suspicious confusion. 

 

“You do?” 

 

“Oh, yes. Of course I do.” 

 

“Love you too,” Sherlock replied carefully, the words painfully unpractised. He could do better. The younger boy propped himself up one of his elbows, brought a hand to the side of John’s face, and gently leaned up to kiss him before collapsing back into jelly in John’s lap. 

 

Neither of them said anything else for the remainder of the cab ride, but the silence was comfortable. 

 

John didn’t bother trying to banish the stupid smile that plastered itself onto his face. 


	19. John Wears Army Kit as Halloween Costume - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi and sorry I am late agaaain but I came home from work yesterday and went straight to bed with a headache and slept for fourteen hours. 
> 
> The prompt is: John wears his army kit as a Halloween Costume.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My ficlet is the first part of a two parter.

“I feel like a tit,” John said. He hadn't expected to go to a Halloween party when he was on leave and when he had refused to buy a costume, Mike Stamford had said he could just wear his army fatigues. John had protested; he couldn't wear his army gear as a costume. If anyone found out he'd be in trouble. Mike had told him to lie about his profession. He was a doctor, that was good enough. He didn't need to mention that he was an _army_ doctor.

As John was rather desperate to go to a party, drink and break out some of his poor dance moves, he had agreed under the strict understanding that no one but he, Mike and a few other friends would know the truth.   
  
“Why? You look... like a doctor dressed up as a soldier,” Mike said, winking at John.  
  
“Oh shut up,” John said. 

The door opened and John was enveloped in a bear hug. “John! Jesus fuck me, you're alive!”  
  
“And you're drunk. You smell like a brewery, Rob,” John said. He pushed Rob away from him. His time in the army had made him closed off in a way he hadn't been at university.   
  
“I don't smell that bad. So glad you're happy to see me after a year away, you wanker,” Rob said.  
  
“Cunt,” John said, grinning.  
  
“That's a very bad word,” Rob said, shaking his head.  
  
“You should know, you taught it to me,” John said.   
  
They looked at each other for a moment and started to laugh.  
  
“You need beer, doctor,” Rob stated.  
  
“Yes, I believe you're right, doctor,” John said.

  
\----------  
  
  
“I'm not wearing that,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Ah, you make the mistake thinking I care,” Victor Trevor said.  
  
“But you _ do  _ care,” Sherlock said.

“And so do you, no matter how much you like to pretend you don't,” Victor said.  
  
Sherlock gave Victor a dirty look. “I don't,” he said.  
  
“Mhm,” Victor said, shoving the costume into Sherlock's hands.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, dropping it.   
  
  
The resulting argument made them twenty minutes late. The result of it was Sherlock wearing his usual suit, albeit the one that made him look his most attractive. Victor had only given up because he wanted to see John as quickly as possible to give him a good inspection to make sure he was okay.   
  
“At least pretend to be James Bond or something,” Victor said, not bothering to ring the doorbell and just walking in.  
  
“I don't even know who that is,” Sherlock said.

Victor turned to Sherlock in shock. “You don't know who Ja-”  
  
“Vicky!” Rob called out from the make shift bar on his kitchen table. 

“He's had a few then,” Victor said with a laugh. He stopped laughing when he saw John standing there, alive and safe and _present_. “Oh my God. There he is.”  
  
Sherlock was thinking something along the same lines.   
  
_Oh my God. There he is. An attractive soldier. It's Christmas. No, it's Halloween, but I was illustrating an emotion and it's okay to use metaphors then. He didn't dress up either. He came as himself. A soldier. An army doctor, if his circle of university friends is anything to go by and it is. An army doctor, back on leave. Are they like sailors? Do they fuck everything in sight on their leaves? Would he fuck me? No. No one does,_ Sherlock thought. He started to sulk.  
  
Victor shouted John's name and hurtled forward, giving John his second bear hug of the day. Sherlock followed Victor under the guise of being his guest but really he just wanted to learn more about this attractive army doctor who was back on leave.  
  
“Hi,” John said, quickly patting Victor on the back before pushing him away same as he had done with Rob. “A fairy? Really? Couldn't have been more original than that?” he asked.  
  
“I wanted to get my point across quickly and weed out the undeserving,” Victor said.  
  
“You mean the heterosexual,” John said.  
  
“Yes, I do,” Victor said. His smile turned into a frown. John used to be a good hugger. John had definitely never pushed him away like that before.  
  
“Hello, I am Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said. Victor was taking far too long to introduce them.

John had been waiting. “Hello, I'm John Watson,” he said. He held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock's grip was tight, warm and just right. It was so typical of Victor to bring an attractive man to parties. So very typical. But it was untypical of John to want him.   
  
“Army doctor,” Sherlock said breathlessly. He was holding it in, all the things he'd already deduced about John Watson.  
  
“Just dressing up as a soldier,” John said, giving Victor a look. It was supposed to be a secret.  
  
”No, you're a soldier. Doctor in the army. That is a real uniform. You didn't want to dress up. Neither did I. I am _not_ James Bond, no matter what Victor has told you,” Sherlock said, giving Victor a look too.  
  
“How have I managed to piss both of you off already?” Victor asked.   
  
“Well, you known me a long time so you know how to. I don't know how long you've been seeing Sherlock but you'd pick up on how to annoy him,” John said

Sherlock snorted loudly.  
  
“Hey! I'm a catch. You should be happy to date me,” Victor said.  
  
“We are not dating, Victor, nor have we ever had the urge to date each other,” Sherlock said. It was best to be clear. If he wanted to have any chance at all with this army doctor, he had to make it crystal clear that he had never had anything going with his friend. 

“Alright, alright, no need to insult me,” Victor said. He corrected his wings haughtily.  
  
“Oh, you're not... I mean, you're unattached. Like me,” John said, smiling at Sherlock. He tried to look just the right amount of interest. If Sherlock shot him down him down he would like to be able to save his dignity by denying that he had ever tried to hit on him.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Oh Jesus,” Victor said, looking between the two of them with realisation dawning on his face. “I need a drink.”  
  
“I'm already on it,” Rob said, shoving a beer under Victor's nose. When Victor had taken it, Rob threw his arm around John's shoulder and pulled him in close. “John, John, Johnny. Has it been awful? What's it like over there? Do people still wear clothes in the heat?” he asked.  
  
John's shoulders tensed. He didn't want to be touched, especially not out of the blue. “Yes, people wear clothes, you enormous cu-”  
  
Rob interrupted him with a theatrical gasp. “Such language!”  
  
John threw Rob's arm from his shoulder. He couldn't stand it any longer.   
  
It made both Rob and Victor stop in their tracks and stare at John. Something was different with him.  
  
“John? Are you... you okay?” Victor asked.  
  
“I'm fine,” John said. He knew it wasn't very convincing and got himself ready for a fight; Victor wouldn't give in on his questioning and John wasn't going to give in either.

“Dance with me.” Sherlock didn't wait for John to reply, and just took his hand and dragged him out to where Rob had cleared a little space in his living room. He let go of John's hand the second they reached their destination and started to move his hips.  
  
John's mouth went dry at the sight of it. He wanted to touch the swaying hips but didn't want to insult Sherlock by not being able to return the favour.   
  
“You can touch me,” Sherlock said.   
  
John looked up and he realised he had been staring. He shook his head, taken aback by being caught.  
  
“Touch me. I won't touch you,” Sherlock said. A little shiver of pleasure went down his spine when he saw the look on John's face. Oh, how he loved seeing the surprise and confusion on people when they tried to work out how he could possibly know and what exactly it was he knew. It made them so uncomfortable in their simple minds. Sherlock had a bad habit of saying too much just to show that he was clever and he often ended up accidentally insulting people. He didn't want to insult John and he didn't want to make him uncomfortable. “You didn't like the others touching you, it was very obvious. It's equally as obvious that you want to touch me. You can touch me, John. I won't touch you,” he said.

John hesitated but not for very long. He put his hands on Sherlock's hips and started to watch the movement again. They danced like that through a few songs, John's eyes eventually wandering up Sherlock's body to lock with his eyes. 

“You want to take me home,” Sherlock said, hoping to every deity that had ever been made up that he was right.   
  
John nodded. What was the point in lying to someone who could see right through him anyway? “I want to take you home.” But for what he didn't know. What were they supposed to do when John couldn't stand the thought of being touched?   
  
“Let's go to my flat. I don't want to stay at a hotel. They're filthy. My landlady cleaned yesterday,” Sherlock said.   
  
John bid his friends farewell, promising to get in touch with them the following day so they could get lunch or dinner together.

   
\---------------  
  
  
The first minute of the cab drive toward 221b Baker Street was spent in silence. And then the dams burst for Sherlock. Holding all his clever observations in was too much work.

“You're a medical doctor and a soldier. You're on leave from your first tour in Afghanistan. Kandahar. Field doctor. You're in your real uniform which means that while you do enjoy your job and respect it, you're not completely set on being tied to it forever. You know if they found out about you wearing it to a party, you'd be in trouble. Interesting, a contradiction. You love being a soldier but at the same time you are prepared not to be. Why? You know your mental health is deteriorating. You're a doctor, you don't like to see people die. But you see it every day. Sometimes you are a direct cause of it. What you knew of yourself has changed and the confusion you are feeling is manifesting in a dislike of being touched.”  
  
He had definitely said too much. John was staring at him mutely and Sherlock knew there was no way to save it. He turned and looked out the window in case his regret showed on his face.  
  
“Brilliant,” John said.  
  
“What?” Sherlock said, turning his head to look at John again. Was he mocking him?  
  
“That was amazing,” John said.  
  
“It was?” Sherlock said.

“Of course it was. That was... amazing,” he said. The air had gone out of him. Someone had seen through him. He was transparent and he couldn't lie about how he felt. He couldn't lie to Sherlock.  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said. He was so confused. People didn't think he was amazing or brilliant when he deduced them. They just didn't.  
  
“Thank you,” John said.  
  
“Thank me?” Sherlock said, even more confused.  
  
“Yes, thank you. You... I mean, that...” John said.  
  
“Oh. You... liked it?” Sherlock said. His deduction told him yes, but previous experience told him that could not possibly be true. 

“Yes, I... I... feel that you... That is to say, that I was pleased that I don't have to say anything for you to... know,” John said. He struggled to find the words to say when describing his emotions; he always had. But it was getting more and more difficult which each passing day he spent in Afghanistan because he couldn't allow himself to have too many emotions there. Sherlock just knowing made him relax.  
  
“Oh. You're... welcome,” Sherlock said.  
  
They arrived on Baker Street and stepped out of the cab.   
  
John took Sherlock's hand as they walked up to the door.


	21. Sexy Cop - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Sexy Cop!
> 
> Also, I've added Anne's Angel/Devil ficlet if you want to back and read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I was going to make a two-parter but I've changed my mind and it's now a three-parter.

Sexy Cop   
  


PART THE SECOND AND I'VE DECIDED THERE SHALL BE A THIRD.  


  
Sherlock couldn't stop himself from looking down at his hand intertwined with John's. It was unexpected to say the least. John was unmistakeably more relaxed now. Sherlock couldn't attribute it to the beer that John had been drinking at the party, the effect of it would have happened long before now. It was disconcerting to realise that John had reacted so favourably to his deductions that they were now holding hands. Was he being set up? There were plenty of people who would want to mock him. _Haha did you really think someone would like you? What a joke. So desperate to be liked that he fell for it._  
  
Sherlock looked down at John's face with his eyes pinched slightly together. John smiled brightly up at him and Sherlock could see no lie or deception. It was genuine. John was a real person who liked him. Sherlock had _relaxed_ someone instead of putting them on their guard.   
  
He quickly dug his keys out from his coat and let them in.   
  
“It's upstairs. Quietly now, or you'll rouse the ever-present and ever-persistent curiosity of my landlady,” he said, ushering John inside.   
  
With their hands still together, they walked up the stairs.   
  
Dim lighting from the kitchen illuminated the living room and John looked around, taking in the piles of papers, the odd artifacts, the cozy chairs and the large windows. It was messy despite Mrs. Hudson's best efforts.  
  
“She cleaned,” Sherlock said, aware that he hadn't let her clean very much.   
  
“A bit,” John said, smiling cheekily up at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock pouted. He didn't want John to stop liking him now when he had liked him this far.

  
“It's really nice. Really great location and it looks...” John said, waving his hand around.

“A disaster?” Sherlock said.  
  
“No. It looks like someone lives here. Like a home,” John said. He was embarrassed by how much emotion he was letting through and looked away.   
  
“Oh. Thank you. You are welcome in it,” Sherlock said, looking away too.

And so they stood, Sherlock looking at the fireplace and John looking at the sofa, until a noise was heard downstairs.  
  
“Yoohoo! Sherlock! Was that you coming home?”   
  
“Mrs. Hudson. Quick, into the bedroom. This way,” Sherlock said, tugging on John's hand to make him follow through the kitchen.  
  
“I'm coming up Sherlock! I hope you're decent!” Mrs. Hudson called.  
  
Sherlock gently, gently closed the door behind them. “Be quiet and she'll go away,” he whispered.  
  
John had to chuckle. Here was a grown man in his twenties, hiding from his landlady.   
  
There was a disappointed , “Oh,” from the living room as Mrs. Hudson took in the dark, silent flat. She made her way downstairs again.   
  
“Well, that was an interesting way to get me into your bedroom, Sherlock. You could have just asked instead of having poor Mrs. Hudson have to come up the stairs to chase us in,” John said.  
  
Sherlock gasped and looked at John with an open mouth. “I did not-”

“No, it's okay. I'm flattered,” John said teasingly.   
  
“I did not-”  
  
John put his free hand on Sherlock's hip and squeezed his fingers around it. “Do you want to be right or do you want to...” he said.

  
Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only one who had read the other. “I like to be right,” Sherlock said.

“Mhm,” John hummed, moving his hand to the small of Sherlock's back.  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat. “But I would like to...”  
  
“Mhm,” John hummed again, walking them toward the bed.  
  
“John, you should know that I've considered myself married to my work and I'm very flattered by your interest. I have never... I'm a virgin,” Sherlock said, straightening himself. He steeled himself for the mockery that was sure to come.  
  
“Virgin?” John said, stopping in his tracks. The rush of blood to his cock at that one word was a surprise.   
  
“Yes, a virgin. It means I've never engaged in sexual activity,” Sherlock said.   
  
“I know what a virgin is, Sherlock,” John said with a laugh.   
  
“Oh. Problem?” Sherlock said.   
  
“If it wasn't so dark in this room you would be able to see that it's not a problem at all,” John said.  
  
Sherlock struggled to understand what John was hinting at but couldn't. “What?”  
  
“I'm hard, Sherlock,” John said, glad that it was dark so he could hide the blush his confession had caused.  
  
“Oh.” It took all of Sherlock's strength not to reach out to feel for himself. He couldn't recall ever making anyone hard before. And now he had. And he couldn't touch it. It was very frustrating.  
  
“Sorry,” John said. He was an idiot. You couldn't say things like that. Especially to someone who had never been in a sexual situation before.   
  
“No. It's... fine. Good. You have an erect penis because I am a virgin and you are thinking of being the one to make me not a virgin. It's fine. Very... flattering. Very... nice,” Sherlock said.

“Not only because you're a virgin. Because you're...” John cleared his throat. Why was it so difficult for him to say what he felt?   
  
“I'm what?” Sherlock asked, trying not to sound as eager as he felt.  
  
“You're gorgeous. You're smart and funny and I... I, er, I like you,” John said. It was so uncomfortable to say what he felt that his cock started to soften.  
  
“You...” Sherlock said. It was impossible. He couldn't possibly be hearing what he was hearing and it was so frustrating that it was dark in the room so he couldn't really make out John's face. He thought back to what John's face had looked like downstairs when he had taken Sherlock's hand.   
  
_John is real_. _John is not a liar. John likes me._

Sherlock kissed John. He made a surprised noise at his own forwardness but couldn't make himself pull away until he realised that kissing probably equaled touching.   
  
“I apologise, John. I do not know what came over me. I was not expecting such a strong urge to do that. I have never experienced it before but now that I have I will be better guarded to it when it arises again. My deepest apologies,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Apology accepted,” John breathed before he pushed himself up on to the tips of his toes and continued the kiss.   
  
It was sloppy. Sherlock was definitely a virgin, an _unkissed_ virgin. John's erection came back in full force.   
  
Sherlock made the same surprised noise again.   
  
“Get down on the bed,” John said breathlessly.   
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said. What a fantastic idea it had been to go to Victor's friend's party. He didn't pay too much mind to instincts but it seemed like he had some and they were incredibly attuned to what was going on around him.  
  
“I meant now,” John said.  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said. He had forgot to move. He sat down on his bed and toed off his shoes. “Shall I remove clothes or would you prefer to do it? I don't know how it's done.”  
  
“Ah, fuck,” John said under his breath. Sherlock's inexperience made his cock pulse. This gorgeous untouched man, all for him. John dropped to his knees and spread Sherlock's legs. “Let me do it. I'll take your clothes off.” He ran his hands up Sherlock's torso and then pushed his coat and jacket from his shoulders.  
  
Sherlock had suspected as much. “You're the first to take my clothes off, John,” he said, a slight tremble in his voice when his breath hitched. He was being exposed to another person. He hadn't expected it to be so exciting.  
  
John tugged the coat and jacket free from Sherlock and then started unbuttoning that ridiculously tight shirt that had left nothing of the shape of Sherlock's torso to his imagination.   
  
“First ever to... Oh,” Sherlock said. John's warm hand was suddenly on his naked chest and something happened down in his pants.   
  
“Oh?” John said, freezing his movements.  
  
“John, I think perhaps I am getting an erection, too,” Sherlock said. He couldn't quite tell, it had been so long ago. The symptoms were the same as last time it had happened; heat, increased arousal and an urge to do something but he didn't quite know what.  
  
“You're... Jesus fucking Christ,” John said, leaving the unbuttoned shirt on Sherlock and moving straight to his trousers to undo them.  
  
“John. John, you're making it worse,” Sherlock said. Yes, he had to confirm it. He was getting an erection.  
  
“Up,” John said, tugging at Sherlock's trousers and pants.   
  
Sherlock obeyed and blinked in confusion when the tip of his hard cock bounced against his lower stomach. He really was hard.   
  
“John, this is unprecedented. I haven't bothered to have an erection for a few months now and yet you've put it right out of my control and made me have one without- oh! Oh,” Sherlock said. Lips had surrounded the tip of his cock.  
  
John dipped his head lower to get at the shaft and Sherlock gripped the edge of the bed to stop himself from touching John.   
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said again. It was fascinating how out of control his body was. His legs had spread wider and he had pushed his hips forward slightly in invitation. His cock was doing an odd pulsing thing that he had never experienced before. It seemed especially prone to do it when John removed his lips from it, like a protest.  
  
There were noises coming out of Sherlock's mouth that John could only categorise as whines. _Surprised_ whines. It was clear even to John that Sherlock had never been on the receiving end of a blow job before. It was so erotic that a wet patch was growing on his camouflage trousers.  
  
"John, you must forgive me if I- oh! Oh! - if I ejaculate too quickly. I'm unaccustomed- oh!" Sherlock said.  
  
"Shut up and come in my mouth," John popped off to quickly say. If Sherlock really was going to come from a minute's worth of a blow job then John would never have to surf the internet for porn again. All he'd ever have to do was to relive the moment.  
  
Sherlock's lips shut obediently and he let out a long whine. He nodded. He could do that. He didn't think he had much of a choice.   
  
It only took another thirty seconds of sucking before Sherlock had a hand in John's short hair, another clamped on John's shoulder and a look on his face like he was about to die the most pleasurable death imaginable. His body went rigid and he closed his eyes. With a short burst of "Oh!":s he came into John's mouth. It made him dizzy, it made him think that maybe cocaine wasn't the answer to all of life's problems when he could self medicate with orgasms. It made the whole world fuzzy around his edges. And when he heard John gulp down his come, it made his softening cock twitch pathetically.  
  
"Ap... Ap'l'gies," he said. He was far too spent to form his mouth into an O. He let his hands fall limply to the bed.  
  
"For coming? That's what I wanted you to do," John said.  
  
"No. For touching you," Sherlock said.  
  
"Ah. No, it's fine. Don't apologise," John said. Sherlock had quickly climbed his list of his favourite people in the world and now that he was a little less of a virgin at John's hand, there wasn't much John would deny him.   
  
"Okay," Sherlock said. He felt very sleepy. Through self-diagnosis he ruled out illness and side effects from alcohol. Apparently he was not numb to the common consequence of orgasm for males. "John. It is customary to have a nap after sexual activity, is it not?"  
  
John leaned his head to Sherlock's thigh and smiled. It felt so good to have warm, healthy skin against his.   
  
"Yes. Can I stay?" he asked.  
  
"Must stay," Sherlock said. He hadn't slept more than a couple hours the past few days and it seemed inevitable now that it was catching up with him.  
  
"I will stay then," John said. He got on the bed after removing his shoes and smiled again when the bed shifted as Sherlock laid down and pulled the covers over himself. He had forgotten how nice it could be to share a bed with someone.   
  
"Night then, Sherlock," he said.  
  
"Yes, John," Sherlock said. He was as good as asleep.  
  
Which made it possible for Mrs. Hudson to sneak up to the bedroom and also made it that much more unpleasant when she turned on the light and revealed herself in the doorway. She was wielding her biggest meat cleaver.  
  
"Get away from Sherlock!" she shouted.  
  
Sherlock jerked awake and stared around, dazed.   
  
"Mrs. Hudders," he said.  
  
Mrs. Hudson's face fell into surprise. "Sherlock? Are you... You were... Oh dear. Oh my God. I am so sorry. Please, get back to... it. Oh my God," she said, she backed out, horrified and embarrassed by the fact that her Sherlock had been engaging in behaviour she didn't think he had any interest in. __And with such a handsome man!__ she thought.  
  
John had sat up in bed too and had made up three strategies to protect Sherlock and himself, to disarm the woman in the doorway and to make a safe escape. The adrenaline turned to laughter as it started to abate. It got worse when he saw a pile of clothes on the floor.   
  
"What's that? Is that a __police uniform__? Are you an officer?" he asked. It would make sense  with Sherlock's particular skill set. No criminal would stand a chance under the all-seeing eyes Sherlock had.  
  
"What? No. I would never claim to be stupid enough to join the police force. That is what Victor thought I should wear for Halloween," Sherlock said.  
  
John got out of bed and held up the clothes. "These are booty shorts. This isn't a police uniform. This is a __sexy cop__ uniform," he said.  
  
"Please, put that back down on the floor," Sherlock said.  
  
"No. I think one of us has to wear it now. I think you like a man in a uniform, Sherlock. Do you think I should wear this?" John said.  
  
Sherlock blinked several times in a quick succession. 


	22. Sexy Cop - golfechoromeo

"Remind me again why I let you drag me to this?" Sherlock said as he gave Molly a glaring and scathing look.  "It is clearly a night for just women and I am here because..."

"Because we all love you!" Molly said, her cheeks flushed from the wine they had all been drinking, except for Sherlock.  "It's like you're-"

"Molly Hooper, if you call me one of the girls, I will immediately turn around and leave," Sherlock said in a blinding fury.

Molly nodded and mimed zipping her lips before she started to laugh.  "Sarah asked for you here especially," she said, trying to soothe Sherlock before he left.  "You're going to leave now?  Before the special guest arrives?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but stayed where he was, leaning casually against the far wall of Sarah's flat.  She had just undergone an awful breakup and her immediate circle of friends had decided to throw her a night spent indulging to try and help him get over her ex.  Someone had suggested getting a stripper for her, and someone else had followed through.  Sherlock looked at the scene in front of him with disgust.  A circle of young women who were all drunk and eagerly awaiting a knock at the door, looking jarringly chipper against the spooky Halloween decorations of skeletons and ghosts. 

Sherlock would leave as soon as the stripper came in.  In the excitement of that, he could make a quick getaway.  No one's eyes would be on him.  Everyone's eyes would be on the stripper. 

A knock at the door.  An excited, "Woo!" from the women.  The door opened and Sherlock was rooted to the spot.  He had been correct, of course. He was always correct.  Everyone's eyes _were_ on the stripper, including his own. 

"Hello," the stripper said nervously, entering into the room, clearly looking uncomfortable.  He was dressed as a cop.  An incredibly sexy cop in a very tight uniform.  His blue eyes darted from woman to woman without taking in their faces too much before they landed on Sherlock and held his gaze. 

"Hi," Sherlock mouthed, feeling an intense pull towards this man. 

The stripper blushed, clearly flustered, and cleared his throat.  "I'm here for Sarah.  I hear she's been especially _bad_."

It was too uncomfortable for Sherlock to stay there for as a witness.  There was something very vulnerable about this stripper, but not in a way that was obvious to anyone but him.  It wasn't on the surface; it went far deeper.  He couldn't stay.  As he moved towards the door, he made lingering eye contact with the stripper once more and left Sarah's flat, his heart pounding heavily. 

It was forty-five minutes later when the stripper left the room, his face glinting with the lightest sheen of sweat.  He didn't even seem to notice that he was not alone in the hallway.  He had been too busy fumbling with all of the different items he was carrying.  He dropped the police hat on the floor and whispered, "Fucking hell."

"Such language," Sherlock said with a smirk, standing a few feet away and looking at the man.  His interest was growing by the second.

"Oh," the stripped said, looking surprised, confused, but a smile spreading unconsciously across his face.  "I thought you left.  I assumed I was such a bad stripper that you...couldn't even stand to see me start."

"No," Sherlock said calmly, moving towards him.  "I just thought if I had stayed and watched you strip, it would have made what I wanted to do seem disingenuous."

"What you wanted to do?" the stripper asked.  "What do you want to do?"

"Take you out for a drink."

"First of all," the stripper said, his expression torn between one of incredulity and one of being flattered.  "You don't even know my name.  And second of all, I'm dressed like a sodding _police officer_."

"To address your first point, that can be easily solved by you telling me your name.  Mine is Sherlock Holmes.  And to address your second, it is near enough to Halloween that you can be seen in that without it raising eyebrows.  Now, tell me who you are and all about the stresses of being a medical student who's using stripping to help him pay for school and books while drinking, oh, I'm going to guess either beer or whiskey."

The stripper's jaw was hanging open slightly as he looked at Sherlock.  A few seconds passed while he got his bearings straight.  "I'm John.  Watson.  And how... How did you know all that?"

"Just looking at you," Sherlock said with a shrug.  "Are we going to go for that drink or not?"

"Alright," John said, surprising himself by agreeing.  He never did this, especially not with a man before.  But there was something different about this tall and handsome man that compelled John to accept the offer.  "I can't believe I'm going to go out dressed like this.  It's going to be mortifying."

"If you prefer, you don't have to stay in the outfit for long," Sherlock said seductively as he walked toward the stairwell.  "I expect you're used to stripping out of it.  We'll put that to good use later."  He was being presumptuous and forward and John couldn't believe how eager he was for what was in store for him that night.  It would be worth wearing the sexy cop costume for the allure that this Sherlock Holmes held for him.

 


	23. Sexy Cop - Anne

It wasn’t Sherlock’s job. Hell, he was still technically a student, finishing up his last year in uni.

It was a hobby, of sorts…And Sherlock really liked having extra cash lying around that Mycroft couldn’t track. Pocket change. Something to buy him a good time, every now and again…

And boy did Sherlock want to have a good time tonight.

Halloween was both a great and a terrible time to be working. There were always the horror stories of strippers being raped and killed in the dead of night when a gig went sour, but at the same time Halloween was when the tips really started flowing, when people let go of their inhibitions under the protection of their masks, when captains of finance became zombies, school teachers became witches, secretaries became sex toys, and a certain genius stripper became a cop.

Sherlock had picked the cop costume because a) it was one of the approved costumes and b) because he found it particularly ironic. There was a time in the distant past when Sherlock had wanted to be a cop, although only because he had equated the profession as synonymous with that of a detective. Once he knew that some cops also watched for parking violations and took anonymous calls from idiots at the police station, the allure of being a cop had promptly withered and died.

As had his respect for the law somewhere along his way to adulthood.

Sherlock had come to the dangerous conclusion that the law wasn’t meant to apply to people like him. People who were truly brilliant.

Now he studied Chemistry. The work was interesting, but not particularly rewarding. Intriguing, but only when connected to things he cared about. Like solving murders. God, it would be wonderful to solve murders. Sherlock thought he would be good at it. 

Sherlock, I’ve got another one for you. SM

The call sounded like a bunch of drunken blokes just fooling around, but the man on the phone assured me that his money is good. Rambled on about how he’s training to be a cop, or something, but just wants a good time. SM

You might have an opportunity to make some extra. SM

Extra. Which meant sex. Seb wanted him to fuck someone.

While technically against the law, all the strippers who worked for Seb were encouraged to please their clients by whatever means possible. Of course, this sort of thing could most definitely be a set up, especially if there was a cop at the party, but if it were a trap, why would the bloke actually admit to being a cop?

Sherlock rapped loudly on the door three times when he arrived at the given location, his natural apathy slowly giving way to excitement at the possibility of danger.

Of course, there wasn’t any danger. Unfortunately.

“See, I told you someone would actually turn up. John needs to get his kicks,” a clearly drunk man in his mid-twenties (who was dressed as a doctor) exclaimed as soon as Sherlock entered the edifice.

“He’s dressed like one of yours, Greg. After this, you’ll fantasize about having Greg’s cock thrusting into you, won’t you, John?” Atrociously fake moans cut the sound of laughter and Sherlock’s face fell back to his normal expression of boredom. Why the hell did he have to be here?

“Someone in particular I’m stripping for?” he finally asked, rolling his eyes at the quite frankly ridiculous behavior of the men around him. There was no way he was “making extra” on a gig like this. None of the blokes even appeared to be gay, at least not publically so. Closeted and bigoted and ignorant. The whole disgusting lot of them. A pang of anger shot through Sherlock’s disinterest at being treated like a circus animal, although he supposed it was unwarranted from a rational standpoint. Even those who had seriously paid him to come strip treated him as no more than an object; he didn’t see how this was actually any different, although it certainly felt different. He felt dirty and strange and small and voiceless, and more than anything, he just wanted to do his job and go home to his quiet flat to sulk. What a great way to spend Halloween…

“Mm, you’ll like him, Johnny. Thin little thing, but he has a nice arse,” the one who had been referred to as Greg called out, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow as he verbally appraised Sherlock’s body. That was the last bloody straw. Sure, Sherlock was basically selling his body, but he was a bloody human being. _Christ_.

And just when the surly genius was about to break character completely and snap at his clients, he suddenly didn’t mind the taunting anymore. Because it finally hit him that these men weren’t really taunting him. They were taunting the one called John.

“Ha, ha, Very funny… Now stop torturing him and let him go home,” a chiding voice interjected. Sherlock looked up, and was met with a blushing cowboy who had been pushed directly in front of him.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“An American.”

“Ah, I see.” Sherlock smirked, concluding that John’s discomfort meant that he did indeed find the young genius attractive. As he rightly should. Sherlock’s body was flawless.

Sherlock did admittedly think that John’s body was also very nice…

“How about you sit down and let me take care of you, hm? You complain too much,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. He was instantly met with hooting and hollering, but now the noise was bolstering him up, providing him the energy he needed to really make a ham of himself, and thoroughly embarrass the man before him in the process.

“Um… Okay. I guess… I mean… I… I don’t--”

“Okay then.” Sherlock interrupted, bringing two fingers to John’s chest and lightly pushing. John immediately fell back into the chair Greg had provided, his mouth open in shock and a shy chuckle just barely making its way past his lips.

“My name’s Sherlock.” Odd… Sherlock was 100% supposed to use a fake name. That was how it worked. That was how it always worked. He didn’t want to though. He wanted John to call him Sherlock. He wanted to hear his name choked out in that uncertain, but sexy voice. He wanted John to know at least that much about him.

“That’s… an unusual name.” Distracted. And here Sherlock was only taking off his coat.

“Is it?”

“Yeah…”

At that, Sherlock sat down on John’s lap and allowed his long legs to straddle John’s hips. John’s cock hardened immediately in response, in conjunction with a sharp intake of air.

“Mm, hey there. Relax… We haven’t even started yet. I’m only getting to know you.” Sherlock’s forwardness was met with what could only be described as a catcall from the crowd. “So, you’re John, hm?”

“Yes. John. Captain John Watson.”

“You doing okay there, Captain John Watson?” A soldier? Yum… That meant Sherlock could constantly call attention to John’s rank. Pretty universal turn-on, by his own personal experimenting.

“Um….” John chuckled nervously, which Sherlock only found brilliantly endearing. He was really beginning to like this stranger. Shit, John was hard. Sherlock could suddenly feel a powerful erection jutting into his thigh. Definitely gay. At least there was that.“Alright. _Everybody out!_ ” John suddenly commanded, the forcefulness of his voice causing his friends to obey, albeit with a few half-hearted snickers.

The flat was empty in seconds. Sherlock tried to stand with the full intention of leaving, money or no money, but John held him in place with a hand on his lower back that suspiciously began to drift lower.

“Stay. Please. I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you or anything,” John finally muttered, releasing his hold on Sherlock and clearing his throat anxiously.

“I didn’t think you were.” Sherlock’s voice was even, and although John kept averted his gaze, Sherlock’s pale eyes remained fixed solidly on John’s face.

“Just… a bit much. With all those blokes around. I didn’t want them to… well… I don’t know…”

“Understandable.”

“Let me… Um… Let me just pay you and you can leave. Sherlock,” John amended, clearly flustered beyond belief at this point. 

“You pay for me by the hour.” Sherlock glanced at his clock, grinning devilishly as he looked at John again. “So you have me for 45 minutes more.”

“45 minutes more?”

Needless to say, Sherlock and John found plenty to do in their 45 minutes. And what they couldn’t do then, they did after a nice dinner out the next day.


	24. Vampire - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry sorry sorry again. I've been so disorganised this go around. Yesterday I was so tired from work that I came home and sat down on the couch to stare right ahead of me for six hours before I went to bed. I'll try to catch up asap!
> 
> Anyway! The prompt is: Vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third and final (?) part of my accidental three (?) part ficlet. I have formed an attachment to this AU.

“Sherlock?” John asked when Sherlock had been silent for a good twenty seconds.   


“Sherlock. Okay, that's getting scary now,” John said. He waved his hand in front of Sherlock's face. “I'm going to put them away. I'm sorry I suggested I put them on. Sorry.” He dropped the shorts back on the floor and Sherlock, awakened by the tone of John's voice, gripped his wrist. It sounded like John was about to be frightened off and leave.  
  
“Sorry? Why? You offered to do something purely for my pleasure even though I fell asleep right after you attended to me without getting anything in return,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Well, I... guess I'm not sorry then,” John said.   
  
“No. You shouldn't be. It is I who should be sorry,” Sherlock said.

 

“Ah, no bother,” John said.   
  
“John, I would not wish for you to wear that costume. I do like-” Sherlock cleared his throat in embarrassment. “I do like men in uniform and I like soldiers the best. If you are to wear anything at all I would prefer you wear your own clothes,” he said.  
  
“Oh. Right. Thank you,” John said. He suddenly realised what Sherlock had said and laughed. “If I'm to wear _anything at all?_ Are you saying you'd rather have me naked?”  
  
Sherlock sputtered and blinked quickly again. This time It made John laugh instead of worrying him. There was something very flattering about being able to make Sherlock's brain shut down when it seemed to be so revved up all the time.  
  
“I'm not _saying_ ,” Sherlock said. He realised he was still gripping John's wrist and let it go. It felt like he was constantly teetering on the edge of pushing John too far and making him leave just like everyone else eventually did.   
  
“No? Don't want to see me naked?” John asked. His wrist felt hot where Sherlock's fingers had been wrapped around it but, he was surprised to find, not in an unpleasant way. In fact, his wrist felt a little empty now without Sherlock's hand there. “Now, I don't think that's quite fair because I can see quite a lot of you now,” he said. He ran his hand over Sherlock's exposed collar bone. “You take your shirt off and I'll take off mine,” he said.  
  
Sherlock could see John eagerly working himself up and he could see just where it would go; John would want to move faster and do more than his mental state allowed for the moment and he'd disappoint himself by not being able to follow through.  
  
“John, I do not wish to reject you,” Sherlock said.  
  
And John's blood felt as if it had become concrete in his veins. “Oh,” he said. He withdrew his hand. A wish not to reject usually meant that a rejection was coming.   
  
“John?” Sherlock asked. He didn't understand what he'd done wrong. “John, I only meant that I don't want you to bite off bigger than you can chew. You can keep undressing me.”  
  
John sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. “I get the sense that you don't think I can... _do this,_ ” he said.   
  
“I think you're so used to throwing yourself into the deep end of danger that you will bite off more than you can chew,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Would you stop saying _bite off more than you can chew?_ ” John said.  
  
“No,” Sherlock simply replied. “Why? Does biting scare you?”  
  
“What? No,” John said.  
  
“Some people fetichise biting, you know. Vampire fantasies and the like,” Sherlock said. “It would only be natural if some people were the opposite.”  
  
“Biting doesn't scare me,” John said.   
  
”Doesn't it?” Sherlock said. He was thinking very quickly. He had said something that had made John pull away, physically but foremost mentally. There was a stiffness in his shoulders that Sherlock did not like and the easy way that John had touched him had gone. _Stupid_ , he thought. John had relaxed and he had naturally been moving forward without thinking about mental barriers until Sherlock had reminded him of them.   
  
So what was it? Sherlock ran through all the information he had picked up about John. John Watson. Doctor. Soldier. Youngest child. Bisexual. Didn't mind giving sexual pleasure without receiving in return. Difficulty expressing emotion and affection, a trait which had worsened during his deployment. Had reacted to the perceived rejection of physical affection.   
  
Sherlock cringed. It was easy when it came down to it. 

 

_Youngest child, the elder child possibly a sister who would not carry on the family name. Did John's bisexuality worry him? Did he carry guilt about his orientation? The odds were yes. Traditional family, perhaps. Strict father, overbearing. John had been told to carry on the Watson name. Procreation required a woman._

 

_John must have shown signs of intelligence early on. Intelligent children often suffered more of mental health issues. Thought too much, too much pressure and expectation put on them. Fear of failure._

 

_Army life would have solidified the ideas he'd been fed when he was younger; manly men, no queers allowed. John on leave, at a party in his army uniform, dancing with a man. Blowing a man. Offering to take off his uniform and being told not to, after being told that his sexual partner very much liked the uniform of a soldier.  
_  
It was all so simple in the end. John was struggling with failing as a man by being queer and failing as a queer by having a man not want to take his clothes off. He had struggled with his decision to wear his uniform to a party. What a safe shield his uniform was! He was not the John his friends had used to know and he had his uniform at hand to prove it! And then had been rejected when he wanted to take off his shied and reveal himself as he was.  
  
 _Stupid. I am stupid. And now you're accusing him of being scared when he obviously is. Men have pride. Queer men_ invented _pride,_ Sherlock thought.  
  
“No, I know you are not afraid of vampires and therefore you won't mind me doing this,” Sherlock said. He didn't know how to apologise or how to tell John all that he had figured out without making it worse. Maybe telling John how he'd been clever wasn't the appropriate response? It was a first for him to spare someone's feelings.   
  
He took a breath and went for another first in his life. He kissed John's neck. The way John's breath came out in a burst excited him. It aroused him and again he wanted to do something but he didn't quite know what, so he went for John's neck again but this time it wasn't with his lips but with his teeth. Maybe holding his tongue sometimes wasn't so bad if this was the reward.  
  
John yelped and then started to laugh. “Was that a test?” John said. “I'm not scared of vampires or biting _or_ you,” he said.   
  
“I applaud your bravery, John. Not many are as daring as you. Please accept my sincere congratulations,” Sherlock murmured. He decided he really like to kiss necks so he did it again.  
  
“Mm,” John hummed. He started to relax again; Sherlock wanted to be with him still. “Thanks. Can I take you out to lunch tomorrow?” The question came out of his mouth before he consciously knew he was going to say them.   
  
Sherlock smiled brightly, his face still against John's neck. No one had asked him out before and he was almost completely sure that's what John had just done.   
  
He decided he not only really liked to kiss necks but he really liked to kiss John's neck. And he really liked John.  
  
“Yes. You may,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Good, my little vampire,” John said. “Do you think you can stop sucking on my neck long to lay down? I'm a little jetlagged and your reaction of falling asleep after coming in my mouth tells me you're just as tired as I am.”  
  
“I'm never tired. My mind operates without sleep,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Mm, right. Lay down now, that's good,” John said, pulling Sherlock down on the bed with him. “Sorry Sherlock, jetlag makes me act as if I'm narcoleptic. Shh,” he said.  
  
John fell asleep and Sherlock was awake long enough to find out that John did not wake up when someone (he) carefully laid their (his) head on his chest. John also did not snore but he was an fidgety sleeper.   
  
When John woke up the next morning he found out that Sherlock liked to use his sleeping partners as body pillows and also drooled profusely in his sleep. 

 

  
A year later, after dozens of letters had been exchanged and another one of John's short leaves had been spent with each other, Sherlock stopped receiving letters. He accepted it. John had finally had enough of him. It was as simple as that. It always happened, sooner or later. It hurt, of course, that John had said that he loved Sherlock and now hadn't even bothered to tell him goodbye. It hurt quite a lot.  
  
On a rainy afternoon four weeks after John's last letter to him, Sherlock had just finished injecting himself with a rather large dose of cocaine to numb the pain of being alone once more when his phone rang. It was a doctor of some sort or the other speaking and he zoned out, the pain of speaking to a doctor that wasn't John too much for him to handle.

But it only took seven words to make Sherlock snap back to reality. Seven words for him to become clean and not look in the way of cocaine again for a very long time. Seven words for hope to well up in chest and seven words to make him more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.   
  
“Mr. Holmes, John Watson has been shot.”

 


	25. Vampire - golfechoromeo

"Sherlock, I'm going to kill you!" John shouted from the bathroom, bursting out furiously, his hand clasped over his neck.   
  
Sherlock ignored him as he continued to focus on the slide in the microscope.  
  
"Did you hear me?" John said, moving forward, his temper uncontainable.  "You gave me a fucking _hickey_ on my neck, Sherlock.  A _hickey!_   Like we're fucking teenagers!"  
  
Sparing one quick glance up from his microscope, Sherlock snorted to himself.  "I cannot be blamed for the way I act in the heat of passion, John.  You know that."  
  
"Can't be blamed," John said in disbelief, shaking his head.  "You are completely at fault for this, Sherlock.  How am I supposed to go to work tomorrow?  Christ," he said, to himself.  "The Halloween party at the Yard is tonight.  We're going to have to see all of them, Sherlock.  They're going to see this and...Fuck me, I'm never going to live this down."  
  
Sherlock sighed and pushed his microscope back.  "John, they know we are romantically involved.  They assume we have sex.  No one will care about a _hickey_.  And if you really want me to fuck you, I think we can arrange for that before we have to leave later."  
  
"Oh no," John said, giving a smile that was more threatening than anything else.  "You are not going to get away with anything.  I'm going to have to try and figure out what to do about this for tonight."   
  
"I've an idea," Sherlock said.  "We will need Mrs. Hudson's help."  
  
"No," John said flatly.  "I am not getting her involved in this.  I am not showing her what you did to me!"  
  
"Then I'm afraid there's nothing you can do to cover it up for this evening, Sherlock said.  "I thought you wanted to draw attention away from it.  Let me know how it goes when Anderson and Donovan see it," Sherlock said as he walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, waiting to see how long it would take before John cracked and gave in.  
  
It took forty-one seconds.  
  
  
"Sherlock!  John!  Greg said with enthusiasm as they walked into the station.  "Those costumes are _amazing!_ I'm surprised you two even dressed up.  We actually had a bet going around here to see if you two would come in costume.  You put us all to shame."  
  
Sherlock smiled proudly and even John gave a small smile.  Maybe this plan would work.  Sherlock didn't have to do much for his costume.  He wore his coat, the collar turned up, bought a cheap pair of plastic vampire fangs, and used red food dye from Mrs. Hudson to make it look like blood dripping from his mouth.   
  
The hickey had been transformed by Mrs. Hudson into a vampire bite, two small circles drawn in the middle of it with a little makeup to make it look more believable.  She had taken a few liberties on his face with the makeup to make him look pale and sucked dry of blood, the perfect impression of a vampire victim.   
  
"Sherlock," came Mycroft's voice as he moved towards them both.  He was dressed in a different suit and holding a martini glass.  "John.  How charming of you both to dress so... macabre."  
  
"And who are you?" John said sarcastically.  "James Bond?  Very original."  Sherlock grinned at him.  Nothing was better than John giving attitude towards Mycroft.  
  


Mycroft sneered at John, trying to remain unruffled by the comment.  "Unoriginal it may be," he conceded.  "But at least mine wasn't created to cover up a rather obvious mark on my neck."  His gaze moved to Sherlock.  "Really, Sherlock.  Can't even keep yourself in check?  We already know that you are dating Dr. Watson.  You don't need to cover him up with marks.  A vampire and his victim.  How _genius_."  He laughed to himself as he walked away.

Sherlock and John stood side by side, feeling slapped in the face. 

"You know what this means, don't you," John asked.   "I'm going to cover you in hickies later tonight so that we're even.  The consulting detective is going to learn what this feels like."

"Consulting _vampire_ detective," Sherlock corrected.  That is the official and formal title of my costume, John."

John shook his head and mentally noted that he would give Sherlock an extra hickey later, just for that comment.


	26. Vampire - Anne

“Sherlock Holmes? Fuck… Is Sherlock here?” John asked the person who opened the door for him, nearly barreling over the less than sober man with his questions. "I’m looking for a bloke named Sherlock. Really skinny, really pale, and… sort of dramatic looking. Dark curly hair, blue eyes…”  

 

“Sorry, mate. Wouldn’t know.” 

 

“You don’t know who is in your own bloody house ?! You _imbecile!_ ” Now John even sounded like Sherlock. That had been happening more and more when he got angry. He almost couldn’t help himself. When Sherlock got angry, it was like a storm being unleashed; unapologetic and dangerous. So what if John was adopting some of that…? Maybe he had always been like that, and was only now growing into his temper— the Sherlock temper. 

 

“Relax, mate…”

 

“I’m not your mate.” John’s hands automatically squeezed into fists and the youth at the door instinctually took a step back to let him in. No one in their right mind would mess with John Watson, especially when the well being of a certain misbehaved genius was at stake. 

 

He felt particularly guilty this time, because this whole mess was John’s fault. He and Sherlock had been watching a movie, drinking a bit, cuddling a bit more. And then Sherlock had kissed him. Right on the lips.

 

And so he had responded appropriately for a not gay man, gently pushing Sherlock off and chastising him. Sherlock hadn’t taken it poorly. The other boy had stayed eerily quiet for the rest of the night, but that wasn’t too surprising. After all, Sherlock went through more phases than the moon. 

 

And now he was gone. On Halloween of all nights, night of masks and costumes and loud music and confusion. Night of mayhem. Night of danger. 

 

Gone, gone, gone. He couldn’t be gone. Christ Almighty, _why_ was Sherlock gone? What had John done? 

 

“ _Sherlock_? You in here, you wanker!? You bloody wanker…” 

 

His heart was hammering away at his insides, and his lungs were burning from a lack of oxygen from a lack of breathing from a lack of control over his anxiety. Everything felt shallow. 

 

Victor had given him a short list of addresses. The places where Sherlock purchased, shot up, and lingered. John had already been to two of them with no luck, which made his heart ache even more, because John needed to find Sherlock and he needed to find him now.

 

Maybe his best friend wasn’t even in danger… It was always possible that Sherlock had simply disappeared to run one of those experiments of his. John didn’t even have real proof that this night was a danger night taken to its worst extreme.  But he knew that it was. Somehow he just knew.

 

“Fuck… I need to know you’re okay. _Sherlock!_ ” 

 

And then John saw him. 

 

Sherlock was sitting on the floor with his back resting against the wall, adorned in a rather lackluster vampire costume of fake leather. His head was down and his legs were tucked into his chest so that he seemed disturbingly compact for a boy with such long limbs. “Sherlock…” John dropped to his knees before his friend, anxiously shaking his shoulders to get his attention.

 

“John…? What are…?"

 

“Yeah… Shit… You alright? Have you…?” Yes, he had. The strip of rubber Sherlock had ostensibly used as a tourniquet was still loosely around his arm although the needle had disappeared. In addition, Sherlock had vomited on the floor beside him sometime during his night of fun, thankfully missing the set of fake teeth that rested beside Sherlock’s left leg. 

 

John couldn’t bring himself to look at a single part of the image for a moment, but because he knew he had to, he closed his eyes and waited. Just a few seconds. Just until he could regather his nerves. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was looking up at him with a disgustingly dazed expression. 

 

“Sherlock, what did you take? How much? Alcohol too?” 

 

“Mm, John. I’m a vampire."

 

“I can see that. Let’s get you home. 

 

“Don’t want to go home.” 

 

“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re going home and you’re going straight to bed. Although a shower wouldn’t hurt.” 

 

Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was puking again, his whole form skeletal in its thinness and undulating with the effort of expelling the irritant. John instantly reached out, resting a hand to Sherlock’s back and rubbing softly until his friend stopped heaving. 

 

“You keep doing shit like this, and you’re going to die.” 

 

“Don’t worry about me… I’m immortal, remember? I’m going to live forever,” Sherlock joked wryly. His eyes were full of unspeakable anguish, and the pain was so real, so close, that for a moment, John thought he might reach out and touch it, wrap his fingers around it and absorb it into himself. Maybe then it wouldn’t be Sherlock’s anymore. Maybe then Sherlock would be okay.

 

John almost accepted the cocky assertion as Sherlock's response out of a mixture of awe and guilt. Almost. 

 

And then he absolutely didn’t. 

 

“You bloody selfish _arse_!” Sherlock was taken aback,—he thought he had been persuasive enough for John to back down. John’s words trickled through the tangled mess that was his mind like blood bypassing thorns and tangles and obstructions with surprising ease. “You’re not immortal. You’re not a machine or a god or an alien or a fucking vampire, for that matter. You are a man. A living, breathing, vulnerable man. A pretty fucked up man, but well… unfortunately for the both of us, that doesn’t make you any less human. I swear to god, Sherlock. I don’t want you to put any more of that shit into your body. You _will_ die. I’m not a doctor yet, but I know that much. This… _exciting life_ of yours will kill you. And…” John could feel himself starting to get choked up with emotion regardless of how angry he was and he couldn’t bloody stop it. Maybe it was the memory of his life at home, marred by alcoholism and addiction. Maybe it was Sherlock Holmes, so bright and young and sad. Maybe it was because he saw something terrible and dangerous inside of himself, and he didn’t know how to kill it and he didn’t know if he really wanted to.

 

“And I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to die. You _can’t_ die.” John gripped the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and shook the bloke harder, finally letting the angry tears fall, finally feeling his whole body lurch with each breath he managed to pull into his straining lungs.  

 

“Okay.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“I said okay. It’s okay.” Sherlock grabbed John’s head and held it into his chest as the other bloke sobbed. “I’m not dying. I’m not going anywhere.” He still felt sick and achingly tired, but he was present enough to know that John wasn’t just fucking around. 

 

“Cut this shit out, you hear me?” 

 

“I will, John…” 

 

“Do you promise?” 

 

“I promise. Don’t worry.” Sherlock swallowed carefully, stroking John’s hair tenderly as he tried to categorize what had just happened between them and what it meant for their relationship. He supposed he could call it that, although John had made it very clear that he had no interest in a _romantic_ relationship with him. Rejection hurt. Sherlock hadn’t allowed himself to admit it in a long time, but now he was confronted with the same truth he had been forced to face as a smart child in a rough world. Rejection _really_ hurt, but he had to be able to withstand it. He knew this. Rationally, he knew this… 

 

“Good. Because I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much. Couldn’t bear to lose you.” 

 

At that, a tear formed, broke free, and sprinted down the pale skin of a cheek. It fell to the ground and shattered on the cold, stone floor.


	27. Trick or Treating - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Trick or Treating!

Trick or Treating

 

“Yeth, hello, my name ith Therlock Holmeth and thith ith my _betht_ friend John Watthon. I am drethed ath a cat and John Watthon ith drethed ath a bee becauthe I told him to. If you like our cothtumeth, you're thupothed to give uth thweeth, it'th the ruleth.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson had barely opened the door before Sherlock Holmes had started speaking. She looked down at the curly-haired little boy who had perfected looking both incredibly cute and incredibly determined and smiled. She had seen him and his _best_ friend playing in the streets and, rather naughtily, in her back yard.   
  
“The rules is it?” she asked.  
  
“Yeth. Daddy and I looked on the internet yethterday becauthe I wathn't thure if it wath the ruleth and if it wathtnt I didn't want to dreth up for other people. I like drething up though. It'th like pretending and then people don't know who you are tho you can do naughty thingth and no one will ever know,” Sherlock said.

 

“I wouldn't have known you're Sherlock Holmes if you hadn't said so,” Mrs. Hudson said.   
  
“Really?” Sherlock asked. He knew his costume was good but he hadn't realised the whiskers would hide so much of his face that he would be unrecognisable. That would come in handy when he wanted biscuits in the night. Even if his parents or Mycroft caught him, they wouldn't know who he was and he wouldn't be told off.    
  
“Really! And John, you're a very handsome bee. I wish my flowers were still blooming for you. I know how you bees like flowers,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
  
“Pollination!” John said. Sherlock had talked about why it was important for him to dress up in a bee costume. Bees made food and John liked food so he liked bees too.  
  
“That's right! Gosh, you are smart boys, aren't you?” Mrs. Hudson said.  
  
John smiled shyly. He liked being call smart.   
  
Sherlock was positively beaming. Mrs. Hudson hadn't recognised him in his bee costume and now she thought he was smart.

 

“Well, you wanted sweets, didn't you. I have some. And I like your costumes very, very much so I will give you _extra_ ,” Mrs. Hudson said.   
  
“Exthtra?” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yes, extra,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
  
“How much exthtra?” Sherlock said.  
  
“I usually give two sweets but I will give you three times as many. How many is that? I'll give you an extra sweet if you get it right,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
  
“Theven,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Oh dear, no that's not right,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
  
“It _ith_!” Sherlock said. She couldn't take back thinking Sherlock was smart. She just couldn't.  
  
”Two times three is six, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said kindly.  
  
”Yeth but then I would have got it right tho I got an exthra thweet and that maketh theven,” Sherlock said. He scowled up at Mrs. Hudson.   
  
Mrs. Hudson took a short breath and then started to laugh.   
  
”Of course. You're absolutely right. You got it right. So seven sweets it is,” she said.  
  
She very carefully counted out seven sweets for them each and then stroked their heads. ”You're allowed to come by whenever you want to. I'd love to meet your parents. You're such lovely clever, boys,” she said.  
  
A voice was rung through the hall and Mrs. Hudson's smile disappeared from her face.  
  
 _“Who the fuck are you talking to? Close the fucking door because I slam it on your face. You're letting the heat out, you stupid bitch.”_  
  
Mrs. Hudson forced a smile to her face again. “Well, now. You have plenty of houses to go by. Enjoy yourselves and be careful,” she said, closing the door.  
  
Mrs. Hudson babysat them often during their time growing up and Sherlock was not in the least bit sorry that he eventually had Mr. Hudson sentenced to death for some petty crimes in Florida. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad Sherlock took that bastard out.


	28. Trick or Treating - golfechoromeo

"I don't know what to be!" Sherlock wailed as he threw all of his clothes in a pile on the floor of his bedroom, his mother trying hard not to roll her eyes at him.  "I have too many choitheth!"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," his mother said, her patience dwindling quickly.  "No one should ever complain about having too many choices.  That just means you are exceptionally lucky and fortunate."  
  
"I am _not_ thoth thingth!" Sherlock said loudly.  "John ith going to be here any thecond for uth to go trick-or-treating and I don't have a cothtume!"  
  
"You _do_ have a costume," Mrs. Holmes said.  "I thought you said you wanted to be a bee!"  
  
"But what if that doethn't go with John'th cothtume?" Sherlock asked.  'Don't we need to match?"  
  
"Match?" Mrs. Holmes repeated.  "Sherlock, you don't have to match.  You can go as whatever you want."  
  
"But I want to go ath thomething John would like," Sherlock said.  "I want everyone to know that he ith my betht friend.  But if our cothtumes don't match, how will people know?"  
  
Mrs. Holmes looked at her son, her heart swelling in her chest.  He had been such a lonely child before he met John, the other children in the neighborhood thinking Sherlock too odd to befriend.  But John was a good soul and Mrs. Holmes knew that Sherlock valued that friendship enormously.  "People will know," she said.  "It is obvious to everyone that you two are best friends."  
  
"But not if we don't match," Sherlock said quietly, his bottom lip jutting forward in a pout.  
  
"Tell you what," Mrs. Holmes said, getting down on a knee so she could be more level with her son.  "We'll wait until John arrives and then we can figure out your costume together.  Maybe John will have some ideas."  
  
"Okay," Sherlock said, sniffling a bit as his pout continued.  "John will know what to do.  I'll keep watch for him to thow up."  He ran down the stairs and pressed his nose against the front window of the house, waiting to see Mrs. Watson's car turn into the  driveway.   
  
When it finally did, Sherlock began shouting for his mother and running to the front door to open it for John.  "John! You're here.  You're late.  And you're drethhed ath..."  
  
John was smiling happily at Sherlock, a toy stethoscope around his neck and wearing a white coat.  "I'm a doctor!"  
  
"I can thee that," Sherlock said, frowning.  
  
"Is it not good?"  John's bottom lip quivered.  He had been so proud of his costume and couldn't wait to show it off to Sherlock, only now it seemed Sherlock hated it.  
  
Mrs. Holmes and Mr. Watson exchanged looks.  Their sons were nothing if not dramatic.  
  
"It'th very good," Sherlock said, still disheartened.  He ran through the options of what he could be, but nothing was coming to mind.  What could Sherlock be for Halloween if John went as a doctor?  "But what am I thuppothed to be?"   
  
"What do you mean?" John asked.  "You can dress up as whatever you want, Sherlock.  It's Halloween."  
  
"But we have to match," Sherlock said, raising his hands in the air.  "John, our cothtumeth need to match!"  
  
"Tea?" Mrs. Holmes asked Mrs. Watson, both of them looking exasperated.   
  
"Please," Mrs. Watson said in gratitude.  
  
"Sherlock, why don't you and John go up to your room and choose a costume together?"  Mrs. Holmes said as she moved to put the kettle on.   
  
"John, come on," Sherlock said, taking his hand and pulling him up the stairs.  "Help me dethide."  
  
John walked into Sherlock's room and gasped.  It was more messy than it usually was.  There were no clothes left in the closet; everything was on the floor.  "I thought you were going trick-or-treating as a bee," he said, seeing the bee costume sticking out beneath all of the other clothes.   
  
"But I can't be a bee," Sherlock whined.  "We can't go trick-or-treating ath thomething that doethn't go together.  That'th why you being a doctor ithn't good.  What am I thuppothed to be?  A doctor and a bee maketh no senth!"  
  
John shrugged helplessly.  He hated hearing Sherlock sound so sad.  He didn't want his best friend to be sad.  What could he do?  
  
"We'll think of something," John said, picking clothes at random and holding them up.  "There are lots of things you can be."  
  
"But why are you a doctor?"  Sherlock asked.  "Why ith that your cothtume?"  
  
"It's what I want to be when I grow up," John said proudly.  "I want to be a doctor.  You could be what _you_ want to be when you grow up.  Then our costumes will go together."  
  
Sherlock ran forward and gave John an immense hug.  "You're tho thmart," he whispered.   
  
"You're smart, too," John said, feeling very proud of himself.  He was a good best friend to Sherlock.  "Let's get your costume together!"  
  
They two of them worked for about fifteen minutes, trying to pull out all of the pieces of the pirate costume that had somehow ended up scattered in every possible location.  Running down the stairs, the two boys called for their mothers, ready to be taken trick-or-treating.   
  
"And what did we decide on?" Mrs. Holmes asked, moving towards the staircase.  
  
"We're both what we want to be when we grow up!" John said.  "I want to be a doctor, and Sherlock wants to be a pirate."  
  
"Of course!" Mrs. Holmes said, giving a sly smile to Mrs. Watson who was taking a few picture of the two boys.  "I forgot we have a future pirate and a future doctor in our presence.  Now, everyone will know that you're best friends," she said to indulge Sherlock.  "Your costumes match perfectly."  
  
"It'th perfect!" Sherlock said, giving John another hug before he grabbed their bags to collect their candy from all of the houses in the neighborhood.  "Let'th go, Doctor Watthon."  
  
"Aye aye, Captain Sherlock," John said, giggling as they left the house, their mothers smiling to each other.   
  
Their costumes could not be more different and no one would ever think that a pirate and a doctor matched, but there was no denying the friendship between Sherlock and John.  Everyone who they passed trick-or-treating would know, and Mrs. Watson would have the photos to prove it.   
  



	29. Trick or Treating - Anne

“Trick or treat,” John teased when Sherlock finally got his lazy arse up to open the door for him. His arms were filled with groceries and there was no way he was setting them down to let himself in simply because Sherlock Holmes was lazy. Or _busy_ , as he always claimed. 

 

“Generally trick-or-treaters are a bit younger. And dressed up. And want candy," Sherlock reminded John with a clearly unamused look painting his face. 

 

“Yes, well, I left my costume at home,” John offered in explanation, waddling into the flat and depositing his load of groceries on the kitchen table. The part of it that was cleared off anyway. "I’m just stopping by. Mrs. Hudson says you haven’t been eating.” The doctor leaned against the wall with casual disapproval. 

 

“Eating is boring.” 

 

“Let me make you something. And then I have to go back… Trick or treating with the kid.” 

 

“The kid? It’s only an infant. What does it want candy for?” 

 

“Charlotte is three and a half, Sherlock. You _know_ Charlotte is three and a half. You just saw her last month. You adore her, remember?” Sherlock fell into a silent sulk. Yes, he had recently seen the child. Yes, he knew her exact age, to the minute. And her approximate height and weight. And her eye color, and hair color, the shape of her feet, the size of her nose, the way her hand felt when it was gripping his. And her blood type. Just in case of emergency. Naturally. He wanted to dislike Charlotte Watson, but he didn’t. She was sweet and innocent and looked like John.

 

“You still shouldn’t give her candy… Too much sugar.” 

 

“ _I_ shouldn’t give her candy? _I_ shouldn’t?” John couldn’t help but laugh. The last time Charlotte had spent a day with Uncle Sherlock, she had consumed enough ice cream to keep her bouncing off the walls for the entirety of the night. 

 

Sherlock only sulked more. He was perfectly capable of caring for a child. He and Charlotte had had an excellent time together. So what if he had provided her with just a bit too much sugar? He didn’t see her enough, and when he did, he wanted to ensure that she liked him.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you have to eat. I bought you salmon and chicken and pasta and a variety of vegetables. Going to cook everything up so you can just go to the refrigerator when you’re hungry.” Sherlock flared his nostrils with distaste. Still, even he had to admit that eating was an unfortunate necessity. 

 

“Come on, now… Let me see you,” John instructed in a much softer voice, pausing in his unloading and striding over to his best friend. Sherlock turned to face John obediently, because he knew that John wanted to hug him and he wasn’t going to turn down a hug, even if he was in a particularly surly mood. Strong arms wrapped around him, and held him close, and for a moment, Sherlock became soft… The angles of his bones melted away, the paleness of his skin was banished by a youthful blush, and his gaze lost it’s sharp point. John… How he had missed John… 

 

“I’ve missed you, you dolt. Can’t believe you’ve gotten this thin,” John remarked in a voice that was both loving and admonishing, finally pulling away to look at Sherlock’s face again. “I’ve been meaning to come by, actually. Just been busy. Mary is pregnant again. You can’t tell her I’ve told you though. She’s having a party to tell everyone.” 

 

Sherlock still hadn’t said anything. He just stared. John had been his and now John wasn’t his. Not at all. 

 

John was a loving husband (not his husband) and nearly a father of two (not his children).

 

“You’re doing okay, Sher? Staying busy? Not using?” 

 

“Yes. I’m fine,” the detective snapped. Why did he always snap? He didn’t need to snap at John when he so rarely saw him, but snapping was a way not to cry. And Sherlock couldn’t cry in front of John. 

 

“Okay, okay. Just checking.” John ignored Sherlock’s bad behavior, and gravitated back over to the kitchen to finish unloading his groceries, scattering all the food out on the table and counter and then preparing to cook up the meat. “You know, I’ve been cooking a lot recently. Finally getting a feel for it. Mary hates doing it.” 

 

Sherlock didn’t respond, but he couldn’t help his lips from pursing with distaste. He and Mary had been friends, and then she had shot him in the chest. He understood why. Obviously. It made sense. But he hadn’t been able to trust her since. 

 

Sherlock waited on the couch as John cooked, barely moving, barely thinking. It was relieving to have John back in the flat within, even if his presence was only temporary. He couldn’t say how much time had passed when John woke him from thought with a peck on the forehead. 

 

“Alright, Sherlock… I’ll see you later.” 

 

“You’re going already?” 

 

“It’s Halloween… Busy night. I’m assuming you’re locking your door from trick-or-treaters.” Sherlock shrugged. Yes, that had been the plan. That was what he always did. He had just suffered through a terribly lonely year though. 

 

“Five more minutes.” 

 

“Okay…” John could feel his throat tightening up. How was Sherlock simultaneously cold and sweet? What was wrong with the doctor that had made him fall so hopelessly head over heels in love with his best friend? Sherlock shivered, and John sat down and draped an arm around him. Sherlock scooted closer, and John indulgently held him tighter. Sherlock began to weep, and John simply stared on in shock. What could he possibly do to fix that? 


	30. Blood and Gore - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! The prompt is: Blood and Gore.

On Halloween John had seen more blood and gore than he had during his entire time at the A&E. He had been a bit upset that he'd had to work on Halloween but had quickly changed his mind after starting his shift. He preferred the real blood and gore to the fake stuff. Something about Halloween seemed to make everyone a lot more accident prone and a lot less careful. Broken toes, broken arms, broken legs, broken noses. Bar brawls, plastic lightsaber fights gone wrong and kids falling off the swing set in their costumes. What he hadn't seen was a patient quite like Sherlock Holmes.

Three doctors all tried and failed to treat him for a burn he'd acquired from a bunsen burner. He deduced them and upset their pride so much they refused to have anything to do with the impossible patient and sent the next doctor on in.

After the third doctor had failed they decided to teach the newly graduated doctor about “difficult patients” and to have a bit of fun hazing him.

“Burns. Haven't seen how bad they are. Says he got them during an experiment using a bunsen burner. Medical history includes drug abuse and two bouts of pneumonia, one of which he had to be hospitalised for. Smoker. Blood pressure and a heart rate a little elevated. No fever. Normal saturation. He was a bit rude to the nurses so they don't want to dress the burns. It's a good opportunity to practice, John,” the senior doctor said.  
  
John jotted down the important bits of information and then entered the room.  
  
”Hello Mr. Holmes, I'm Doctor Watson,” John said, smiling mildly at Sherlock.

“Piss off. Are you even old enough to be a doctor?” Sherlock snapped.  
  
John smile was still mild. “Just about. Are you in pain?” he asked. Patients could lash out in anger if they were in pain John had learned very early on.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said.

“No? You sure? I would be,” John said, starting to fuss with packages of dressings.   
  
“No,” Sherlock said again.  
  
“Alright. Tell me if it changes. Can I have a look?” John said.  
  
“You like to pretend you're straight to your colleagues but you're not. If not gay then bisexual. Should I let them know?” Sherlock said, lifting his wounded arm up with his healthy one in a protective gesture.  
  
John turned and looked at Sherlock. The twenty-something man looked like a scared little boy sitting on the stretcher. John frowned and then swallowed his angry retort back down. “May I see your wound, please?” he said.  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “You're attracted to me. You looked over my body when you came in and then straightened your body to show your best features,” he said.  
  
“The only thing I'm attracted to is the burns on your arm and now _let me bloody see it_ ,” John snapped. 

“Rude,” Sherlock said.

John had to laugh. “Alright. Look, I'm going to have a look at your arm and dress it if I have to drug you to do it. You can't walk around with untreated burns on your arm, Mr. Holmes. It'll get infected and you'll start to feel a lot more pain than you are now. The infection will eat away at your skin making it a gaping hole where skin, fat, ligaments and muscles used to be. And then you'll get necrosis and it'll smell so bad you'll gag constantly. You'll have to amputate your arm and then how will you operate your science equipment?” he said.  
  
Sherlock look startled and froze for a moment. He nodded and let his arm down in his lap.  
  
“Thank you,” John said. He pulled on an apron and gloves and got to work.  
  
Sherlock tried to keep his breathing in check but it was far too painful for him to hide.  
  
“You're in pain,” John said matter-of-factly, still concentrating on the wound.

  
“No,” Sherlock said.

“Oh Christ, are you always this stubborn or just when you're hurt? Let me help you,” John said.  
  
“Your version of _helping me_ is to threaten to drug me,” Sherlock snapped.  
  
John paused and looked up into Sherlock's face. _He's a recovering drug addict and you threatened to drug him, you dickhead,_ he thought. 

“I am so sorry,” he said.   
  
Dr. Watson's gaze was so earnest that Sherlock couldn't find it in him to tell him that seeking forgiveness from him was stupid and, in fact, his dressings were stupid, his job was stupid, his face was stupid and his entire being was stupid.  
  
Instead he said, “okay.”  
  
“Is that why you won't take anything for the pain?” John asked. Of course it was, but it was good to confirm it.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Not even paracetamol?” John asked. He doubted paracetamol would do anything to help with the pain from the burn but it wouldn't hurt to try.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said.  
  
“How long have you been clean?” John asked.  
  
“One hundred days,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Wow. Happy Halloween,” John said.  
  
“Mm. People do a lot of drugs on Halloween,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yes, I should think so. Pretending to be someone else and drinking alcohol can lead to some bad decisions,” John said.

“I won't make a bad decision tonight,” Sherlock said.   
  
It sounded to John like Sherlock was trying to convince himself of it.  
  
“And tomorrow?” John asked.  
  
“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” Sherlock said. The pain of his burn and the constant temptation he had was making it so difficult to resist. He couldn't think of a whole life of tomorrows without using; it was too much to handle.  
  
“Well,” John said, putting down the last piece of tape on Sherlock's mummified looking arm. “You'll need to come back tomorrow for me to check on it. Ask for me. Doctor John Watson.”  
  
“Here? At the A&E? Surely I'd go to a GP or a community nurse,” Sherlock said. 

John smiled. “Alright, fine. Come back tomorrow so _I_ can check on _you_ ,” he said. “Listen, my sister is an alcoholic and I know how she gets. Let me bloody help you, yeah?” he said, echoing his words from before.   
  
The little hand of comfort John was reaching out with made Sherlock's heart clench up painfully and there was no way he could reject the offer.  
  
Sherlock came the day after, and the day after that and the day after that. Each time he asked for Dr. John Watson and each time Dr. John Watson appeared with his mild smile and checked his bandages and to see if Sherlock was showing any signs of infection. He'd stay a while to talk and Sherlock found that he liked his doctor.  
  
Very much.  
  
And on the fourth day when Sherlock kissed him he found that John liked him very much, too.  
  
Very, very much. 


	31. Blood and Gore - golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Sherlock's Revenge to John's antics found in golfechoromeo's Ghost Stories ficlet!

In order for the plan to go accordingly, Sherlock still needed to pretend that he was furious with John for turning their flat into a living ghost story just  to try and teach him some sort of lesson.  What Sherlock had taken away from the whole experience, however, was that John was far craftier than he had given him credit for originally.  Now it was Sherlock's turn to be crafty.  He scowled for the sake of scowling, not betraying how excited he was for what was in store at Angelo's.  
  
"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John said as they walked.  He shook his head at the man beside him.  "You can't honestly still be angry at me."  
  
"Of course I can," Sherlock hissed back, his phone vibrating in his pocket.  A text.  From Angelo, no doubt.  Everything must have been in place.  
  
"But this is going to be miserable if you keep this act up."  John was having a difficult time keeping the smile from creeping back onto his face, which he assumed was keeping Sherlock so surly.  He couldn't help it.  He was so pleased with himself for accomplishing the impossible.  Besides, Sherlock would get over it.  Maybe Greg would text with a case or something during dinner.  Something would come along to distract Sherlock from being angry at him.   
  
"What do you suggest then, John?" Sherlock asked.  "That I forget it and put it all behind me?"   
  
"Well...yes."  
  
Sherlock huffed out a sigh.  "I'll try," he said in a grumble, a fantastic show of being stubborn.   
  
John bit the inside of his cheek to keep form laughing as they approached the door to Angelo's.  Attempting to hurry Sherlock along in the forgiving process, John held the door for him, an act which Sherlcok pretended to ignore.  Secretly, he liked when John did things like that for him, but he would never tell him.  
  
"Ah! Boys!" a booming voice came from behind the bar as Angelo moved towards the door.  "How are you?"  
  
"Fine," Sherlock said, the scowl returning to his face.   
  
Luckily, Angelo was always smiling and therefore his chuckle did not give the game away.  "Ah, I see someone's in a rather foul mood tonight, eh?" he said.  "What did you do to him, John?  Beat him in another game of Cluedo?"  
  
John shook his head.  "We just finished a case today, actually," he said, his lips twitching as he continued to struggle in keeping the smile from his face.  "Ended up telling ghost stories and Sherlock didn't like the one I told him."  
  
Sherlock turned his head away from John, pretending to be very occupied by the wall and clearly still fuming over the entire incident.   
  
"Ghost stories," Angelo mused, stroking his beard and giving a rather believable far off and pensive look.  "Not a fan of them, myself, but you can't say that some aren't kind of eerie."  
  
"I agree," John said.  "And I think Sherlock would as well."  
  
Sherlock said nothing.  
  
Angelo laughed nervously, though whether an act or because he was unsure of how the evening would progress, Sherlock was unsure.  Regardless, it felt natural in the moment and a quick look passed between the two as Angelo said, "I'll be back with a nice bottle of wine for the table.  And the usual dinners?"  
  
"That would be great, thanks," John said, smiling excitedly.  A nice glass of wine or two would be perfect.  
  
"Absolutely," Angelo said with a nod.  "Back in just a tick."  
  
_Back in just a tick_.  The phrase.  The plan was in action.  Things were set to go.  Everything was in motion.   
  
Sherlock feigned stretching his back muscles as his eyes took in everything he needed to.  The two waiters nearby.  The clearly fake patrons.  The knife.  The bottle of wine.  The candle.  The plate of food.   _Excellent_ , Sherlock thought, as he turned back to John.  


 

"Listen, John, about what happened before..."  Sherlock closed his eyes as though he were bracing himself to apologise for saying that ghost stories could all be explained and were false.  "I-"

But he paused.  The lights flickered.

"Very funny, John," Sherlock said, giving a deadpan look.

"Sherlock, this isn't me," John said, his eyes peering around.  "Must be the wind."

"It's not going to work twice," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  "I'm glad you think I'm _that_ idiotic, that I would fall for this again."

"Sherlock.  Look at me.  It's _not_ me."  John stopped talking as the lights went out for good.  "Sherlock, you okay?" he asked.

"John, I'm fine.  It's just a power outage." 

Unbeknownst to John, everyone in the restaurant was moving silently, quickly.  The knife had been slipped into Sherlock's hand which was stretched out behind him.   Two taps on his shoulder.  That would be Angelo.

"I'm not falling for it this time, John," Sherlock said.  "What are you going to say?  That this is some ghost that cuts open his victims?"

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake," John whispered.  "This is _not_ me!  This is just a fluke!"

The lights on once. John's eyes landed on the knife that had been stabbed into the table. 

The lights off again.

"Sherlock, what's...?"

Lights on.  A wine bottle tipped over on the table, red liquid pouring everywhere.   
  
Lights off.  
  
"Fuck, Sherlock.  Let's go.  Let's-"  
  
A candle appeared in the middle of the table.   
  
"You boys aren't leaving now, are you?" Angelo said.  "And miss all the fun?"  
  
Screams from the other tables as the lights turned on to a dimmed setting and John looked at Angelo, horrified.   
  
"What the fuck is happening?" he demanded.   
  
But Angelo said nothing as he unbuttoned his shirt in the middle and what appeared to be blood and guts poured out onto the table.  
  
John sprang into action and pushed Angelo to the side, grabbing Sherlock's hand and pulling him up.  He needed to keep Sherlock safe, needed to protect him.  "Let's go!" he shouted, but Sherlock was laughing.  "Why are you laughing! Why are you..."  John realised everything all at once.  "You fucking _cock!_ "  
  
The lights came on and everyone in the restaurant was laughing and applauding, proud of themselves for their efforts that had paid off tremendously well.  Angelo clapped a furious and confused John on the back and boomed out a loud and hearty chuckle.   


 

"All of you were in on this," John said, looking around.  "How did all of you do this?"

Angelo grinned, his eyes lingering on John's hand, still clasping Sherlock's.  "Sherlock put all of this together.  He was a bit unhappy about what happened before so..."

"Of course he was," John said.  "I should have known when he didn't put up too much of fight, but for _fuck's_ sake."  He let out a long exhale and looked at what had spilled out of Angelo.  "Sausages.  You used sauce and sausages to be blood and guts.  You're all lunatics."

But there was something infectious about Sherlock's laugh that kept John from being upset for too long.  Their hands were still holding onto each other and a lingering existed in their stare, as John tugged them both towards the door. 

"Fuck you all.  We'll eat at home," John said smiling at all of them, flipping them off as he and Sherlock left the restaurant.  "And if you think I'm going to forgive this so soon, he whispered into Sherlock's ear, "You're more insane than I though.  You fucker."  He didn't know what made him do it.  Perhaps it was the thrill of being alive or seeing such elation on Sherlock's face, but John pulled him in and pressed a kiss to the side of John's face.

Sherlock could explain away any ghost story now.  He knew they weren't real and he knew that there could be any number of things he could say to disprove them.  
  
But John Watson kissing him?  There was nothing Sherlock could say to explain that, nor why he wanted it to happen again.


	32. Blood and Gore - Anne

John couldn’t tell if the kitchen was the scene of a murder, elaborately decorated for Halloween, or simply one of Sherlock’s experiments gone wrong. Blood was everywhere, and even though John considered himself a seasoned professional (both in the field of medicine as well as in the field of Sherlock), even he had to admit that this particular Halloween surprise was shocking, infuriating, and disgusting.

 

Red coated the floor, unidentifiable flesh was strewn on one of the kitchen cabinets, a jelly like substance sat in a pile in front of the kitchen sink, and thick ribbons of blood had somehow splashed onto the ceiling, creating quite macabre modern art. John didn’t get a good peek into the oven, but the smell of burnt flesh was a good enough impetus for him to quench that curiosity immediately. In fact, the only thing on John’s mind at this point was locating the moron who had managed to turn his stomach after a hard day at work.

 

“ _Sherlock Holmes!_ ” John finally screamed, after taking a suitable amount of time to come to terms with the absolute mess that was his kitchen, of course. 

 

Sherlock popped his head out from the bathroom. He was wrapped in a towel and his damp hair was sticking up every which way. His lips twitched guiltily, but otherwise the detective remained obnoxiously composed, the very picture of innocence. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“What the _bloody hell_ happened here?” 

 

Sherlock shrugged in disinterested ignorance, which only began to crack after a particularly harsh glare from John.

 

“I may have made a few understandable miscalculations while running a heat and pressure sensitive experiment.” 

 

“ _Understandable miscalculations?_ Sherlock, our flat is a biohazard.” 

 

“No need to be dramatic.” 

 

“Clean it up. Now.” 

 

“I just got out of the shower…” 

 

“You should have thought about that beforehand.” 

 

“Can’t we just call a maid?” 

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Why not?” John let out a wry laugh at that, making Sherlock shiver with how dangerously furious he appeared to be.

 

“Any maid in her right mind would call the Yard and then Lestrade and the boys would really have a laugh. And possibly put you behind bars for stealing bodies from the morgue. Or for reckless endangerment of one Dr. John Watson. Or for just being the type of bloody idiot to get blood and guts all over the kitchen!”

 

John and Sherlock stared at each other for a long moment, each sizing the other up, and then both promptly burst into laughter.

 

“I suppose I can call Molly and see what service Bart’s uses for clean-up,” John offered in acquiescence, actively working to push his fury into submission. He was really too tired to argue, and Sherlock looked so clean and crisp and fresh, a few rivulets of water running down his chest.

 

“Thank you.” 

 

“Why didn’t you just clean it up yourself?” John inquired. Because while it was no secret that while Sherlock was typically lazy, messy, and indifferent towards the state of the kitchen, they both knew that he hated when John yelled at him.

 

“Quite frankly, it’s a bit much,” the detective admitted, running a hand through adorably messy, post-shower hair.

 

“God, you wanker…” John chastised gently, wondering yet again why and how he tolerated his completely bonkers flatmate. 

 

How absolutely heavenly Sherlock looked wet and wrapped up in a towel probably had something to do with it.


	33. Cat - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Wimpy Tentacle ficlet. Maybe I can't be tamed either.

The Wimpy Tentacle was going through a phase where cats was all it cared about. It stretched as far out as it could if Sherlock passed a stray cat in the street and the fridge door was plastered with original drawings. All the barrettes currently in the Wimpy Tentacle's etsy shop featured whiskers, cat ears or a fluffy tail. 

“Sherlock,” John said one day when he saw that the fridge door had become so full of drawings that they had started spilling over to the cabinet doors. “This is starting to get ridiculous. I like cats as much as the next person but I don't want them wallpapered over the entire kitchen.”  
  
“It's not me. It's the tentacle. I don't particularly care for cats,” Sherlock said.  
  
John knew better than to believe Sherlock and he also knew better than to argue with him.   
  
“Okay. I can't live with all these cats staring at me. I'm going to take them down and put them in a nice folder that you can flip through when you want to look at them,” John said.  
  
“It's not _me_ , it's the tent-”  
  
“Tentacle. I know,” John said. He sighed and gave his head a little shake to clear it before he started to take down the drawings.   
  
The Wimpy Tentacle stretched out for John's arm but couldn't reach. It laid itself down on the table and flailed dramatically.   
  
But John didn't notice the flailing and so the Wimpy Tentacle laid itself flat on the table and pretended to be dead from the insult and heartbreak of John not noticing and taking down thedrawings.

“There,” John said, still not having noticed anything amiss with any of Sherlock's tentacles. “I don't know how you worked in here with all those eyes staring at you.”  
  
“Mm,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his microscope.   
  
“I need a coffee,” John said. Sherlock wasn't in a talkative mood so he wasn't going to bother trying to engage with him when there was a newspaper to be read by the fireplace. 

The Wimpy Tentacle thought John was acting so casually about the whole traumatising ordeal that the pointy end of it lifted from the table. It coiled and uncoiled itself a few times as if it was stretching before grabbing on to the closest beaker and pushing it off the table to fall to the ground.  
  
The crash made John whip around and stare. “What the hell, Sherlock. Be _careful_ ,” he snapped. He had been unfortunate enough to be around once when Sherlock had knocked something acidic off the table with his elbow. It had ruined his shoes and given him burns on the top of his foot.   
  
“ _It's the tentacle_ ,” Sherlock snapped.   
  
“ _The tentacle is you_ ,” John snapped back.

The Wimpy Tentacle whipped around in the air. It did not like when John was snapping and it did not like that no attention had been paid to it even though the desire for it had been _clearly_ exhibited.  
  
“You brought this on yourself with your apparent fear of cat's eyes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ I used to live with one child and now I live with a child that has a tentacle that's even more of a child,” John muttered. 

Sherlock huffed and the Wimpy Tentacle pushed another beaker off the table and then retreated to sulk under the edge of the table.

  
John closed his eyes and counted to ten. Managing an insulted, tantruming Sherlock had become so much more difficult since the appearance of his tentacles.  He had no troubles ignoring Sherlock when it came to  over the top dramatics, but when a certain Wimpy Tentacle was having a tantrum John found it difficult to the extreme to ignore it. The destruction that a Wimpy Tentacle left to its own devices during an outburst of emotion was far worse than what Sherlock himself could ever think up, including the incident with John's gun and Mrs. Hudson's wall. 

The Wimpy Tentacle could not be tamed.  
  
But it could appeased. Baking cupcakes for Sherlock to eat worked, as well as a rapt audience listening to the Wimpy Tentacle playing its own compositions on the xylophone. It was simple things, really, that made the littlest tentacle the happiest. 

  
“All right,” John said, pushing his anger down below the surface so he could let Sherlock win. “All right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken down the drawings. But look on the bright side; your tentacles can draw new ones to fill the fridge door again,” he said.

“Not going to work, John. You've upset it,” Sherlock said. He was still raptly staring into his microscope.  
  
John brought the xylophone over and the Wimpty Tentacle looked out from its hiding place just long enough to send it crashing to the ground. The cupcake mix box had the same fate. When John tried to stroke the tentacle under the table, it simply withdrew.  
  
“Mm, none of that is going to work,” Sherlock said. There was a little smile playing on his lips.  
  
“Tell me then. Tell me what's going to work,” John said.   
  
“It likes cats,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah, I know, but I can't just go out and get a cat so your tentacle comes out from under the table,” John said.  
  
“No, I mean it likes cats. And it's Halloween,” Sherlock said.  
  
“It wants to dress up as a cat?” John said hopefully even though he had an inkling that wasn't it at all.  
  
“No, John. _Think_. It likes cats. It likes to pet cats. It can't very well pet itself. It could, on the other hand, pet _you,_ ” Sherlock said.  
  
“No,” John said. He was not going to dress up as a cat to stop a tentacle from tantruming.  
  
“Yes, unfortunately. It will pain me to see you so humiliated. There's markers in the drawer there behind you. Should be able to draw nice whiskers with those,” Sherlock said.  
  
John snatched his cup of coffee off the counter top and stomped off to his chair to read the paper. Sherlock couldn't be serious. There was just no way. No _way_.   
  
John always forgot how much the Wimpy Tentacle and he loved to be affectionate with each other. It was so much part of the daily life at Baker Street that he didn't often have the chance to notice just how much time he spent being poked, grabbed, stroked, massaged and curled up around, and how much he relied on it.   
  
He missed it.   
  
After just two hours he missed it so sorely that he did something he swore he'd punch Sherlock in the nose for if he ever mentioned it to anyone.  
  
He drew whiskers and a button nose on his face with a black marker.  
  
And then the Wimpy Tentacle petted him all evening.

It was worth having to endure Sherlock call him Doctor Catson for a few days.


	34. Cat - golfechoromeo

Hamish was stretched out lazily on the floor of the flat when the door banged open, his daddies waking him up from his mid-afternoon nap.  Barking merrily, he ran forward to greet them until he saw what Daddy John was holding in his arms.  Sniffing at the air, Hamish didn't recognise its smell and he wasn't sure he liked it.  Whatever it was it looked down at Hamish with bright green eyes.  He barked at it.  
  
"See?" Daddy Sherlock said in exasperation.  "I _told_ you that Hamish wouldn't like him. Cats and dogs don't get along."  
  
"Hamish will be fine, won't you, boy?" Daddy John asked looking down at Hamish and smiling.  "He has a new friend."  
  
"John, it's a stray cat," Daddy Sherlock said.  "We'll find a new home for him soon.  Maybe Mrs. Hudson will take him."  
  
"If things don't go well with Hamish, then maybe," Daddy John said.  "Let's introduce them!"  He bent down on his knees, still holding the black creature who had a longer tail that Hamish's.  Hamish didn't like that.  He didn't trust the way it moved.  "Hamish, this is Billy."  
  
"Billy?" Daddy Sherlock asked.  "Really John?  You're naming him?"  
  
"Yes," Daddy John said, trying to keep his calm.  "You named Hamish after me and I'm naming Billy after you."  
  
"I have a skull named after me.  That's enough."  
  
Daddy John ignored him and held out his free hand towards Hamish.  "Come on, it's alright, Hamish.  Come meet your new friend."  
  
Hamish moved forward slowly, cautiously, his eyes fixated on that long tail swishing back and forth.  The creature made a sound that wasn't a bark and Hamish did not like or trust the creature one bit.  He barked loudly at it and ran to the other side of the room.  
  
He did not want that creature to stay in the flat.  This was _his_ home.  He lived with his daddies and there was no room for someone else.  Especially not this weird dog that didn't bark and had a long tail.  They called him Billy and eventually, Daddy Sherlock began to pet him too.  Hamish growled form his spot on Daddy John's armchair.  
  


As the day wore on, the weird dog Billy moved around the flat, exploring.  Hamish huffed at him as he visited all of the spots that he loved, or that his daddies loved.  Weird dog Billy was rubbing the side of his face against the coffee table and the table by the window and every corner and flat surface he could find.  Hamish didn't like it.  It was like this creature was marking his territory. 

It wasn't weird dog Billy's.  It was _Hamish's_. 

Weird dog Billy hopped up onto John's armchair and Hamish barked at him.  No.  He would not tolerate this.  He would not.  He would chase weird dog Billy away so that he could be alone with his daddies.

But weird dog Billy didn't jump from the chair.  He just curled up next to Hamish and closed his eyes.  He was very still, even his tail.  Hamish sniffed him and found that he didn't completely hate the scent.  He trusted weird dog Billy a lot more now that his tail wasn't swishing back and forth.  Still cautious, Hamish returned to his position, lying down on the chair.  He closed his eyes and fell asleep in spite of himself.

When he woke up, there was something soft on him and Hamish looked back to see that weird dog Billy's tail was draped over him.  It was warm and he liked it.  There was a soft rumbling coming from weird dog Billy, too.  It wasn't a growl like Hamish's.  It was like when Daddy John made those noises when he slept.  _Snores_ , Daddy Sherlock called them. 

Maybe this weird dog Billy wasn't so bad after all.  Hamish would allow his daddies to keep him for a little while longer.  Maybe he could be a friend or live with Mrs. Hudson so they could still see each other. 

Hamish could tell that his daddies were so happy that he didn't hate weird dog Billy.  He didn't want to disappoint them or make them fight.  He didn't like when they yelled loudly.  He liked when they bumped noses and were nice to each other.  _Love_ , they would say and Hamish was happy because his daddies were happy.   He couldn't upset them now. 

The hours passed.  It was dark outside and Daddy John had just closed his book and stretched.  Hamish jumped down from the chair and stretched too, knowing that it was time for bed.  He yipped happily and then turned to look at weird dog Billy.  Where would he sleep?  He didn't want him to be alone.  Maybe his daddies would let him sleep in bed with them.  Weird dog Billy had been nice to Hamish and they had napped together.  Hamish wanted to be nice and he wanted to please his daddies.

"I think he wants us to take Billy," Daddy John said, giving Hamish a rub on the top of his head.

"He's caring," Daddy Sherlock said.  "If possible for animals to take on genetic traits from their owners, I would say he gets that from you." 

Daddy John leaned over and bumped his nose against Daddy Sherlock.  "Let's go to bed."

A few minutes later, Hamish found himself snuggled up cozily in between both of his daddies, with weird dog Billy curled in a ball again above him on the pillow.  Hamish liked weird dog Billy very much.  Maybe he wouldn't need to go stay with Mrs. Hudson.  Maybe, if Hamish could prove that they were good friends, his daddies would let weird dog Billy stay with them forever.

He gave a low and happy bark as he closed his eyes to go to sleep. 

  
_Love_ , he heard Daddy John say.

  
_Love_ , he heard Daddy Sherlock say.

Weird dog Billy was making the soft rumble sound again and Hamish sniffed at the air happily, thrilled with the new addition to their family. 


	35. Cat - Anne

Fuck, where Greg had gotten the tights, John would never know. There really wasn’t room for his balls to breathe when he was in the costume, but the older boy had assured him that he looked hot. Hot, as opposed to idiotic, which was how John felt. What type of bloke wore black tights and some cat ears for a Halloween costume? He had always gone with something more relaxed, something that only required him to wear a witty t-shirt or a nametag. Of course, Greg had explicitly vetoed anything of that sort from the very beginning. The rugby team was going out together, and every member had to fully flaunt his nearly perfect body.

“How do I look?” John asked his roommate in a less than eager voice, awkwardly pulling up the skin-tight fabric and then wincing when he realized that only caused it to slide up against his arse, giving him a wedgie. _Never again._ They could fucking kick him off the team for all he cared, but he was _never doing this again._

“That’s it?” Sherlock finally asked, looking John over carefully. Perhaps too carefully.

“Yeah… I feel like I should put on a shirt or something.”

“You’re good.”

“Sherlock, this is embarrassing.”

“No, John. You look… very festive.”

“Can you even tell what I’m supposed to be?”

“Hm?” Sherlock hummed distractedly, gently pushing a curl behind his ear. “You’re a… prostitute?”

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

“Teasing. Um… The animal ears lead me to the assumption that you’re an animal of some sort.” John huffed in frustration, collapsing on his bed in the manner that least disturbed his genitals. “Maybe I shouldn’t bother going out.”

“You should. Um… Oddly enough, Greg actually invited me to go out with you tonight as well. I’m sure Mycroft forced him to.”

John had known that Sherlock was invited, and he knew that it had nothing to do with Mycroft. Apparently, during a wild night of drinking, the sexually frustrated rugby player had said something to Greg about how hot Sherlock was, and now the captain of the team took every opportunity to encourage a more than strictly friendly interaction.

“Could be. I mean… I’ve told him about you, of course. That you’re my best friend and whatnot…” Sherlock could hear something uncertain in John’s voice, but he ignored it, instead returning to his Organic Chemistry textbook without so much as a glance in John’s direction.

John had never looked so good, had never been so bloody tempting. Hell, Sherlock might even brave the horrors of going out just to be able to look at him all night. Was that weird? Nah… Not too weird… Okay, maybe a bit weird.

“Okay… I’m leaving, Sherl. You coming or not?” John prompted a few minutes later, deciding that the atrocious outfit would have to suffice for the evening.

“I’m coming.” Sherlock shot up out of his chair, slamming his book shut in a single, decisive motion, feeling himself blush. He needed to be relaxed… He needed his attraction to be inconspicuous… However, regardless of how obvious he was being, there was no way he was missing this.

“But you don’t have a costume…” John meekly offered in protest. The young genius snorted in derision at that, unbuttoning his shirt, which just happened to be black, and mussing up his hair. Good enough. More than good enough. Sherlock was more interested in watching John than he was in being watched anyway.

\------------

“Looking good, Watson!” Stamford hollered when he saw them, letting out a crude whistle. “Ready to get wasted?! Although you could get bloody fucked up the arse in that get up if you’re not careful.”

“Oh, shut up, you wanker…” John blushed and ran a hand through his hair a few times anxiously. He couldn’t _really_ pull off what he was wearing, could he? “Oh, and this is Sherlock. My roommate.” At that, Sherlock nodded (acceptable response?), taking note of the particularly strange looks he was getting from Greg. Okay, yes. So he was trying too hard to be normal, what with his sexed up appearance, his unassuming silence, and the whole ‘going out with other human beings’ nonsense. Couldn’t he be normal for one night without raising the alarms?

Obviously not. His change in behavior would be carefully catalogued and sent to his brother. Sherlock was sure of it. God… what would Mycroft say?

“Hey, Sherlock. I thought we’d check out Trevor’s apartment first, yeah? He’s a bloody rich bastard. Should have the place decked out.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

It seemed like Sherlock was drunk as soon as the first drop of vodka singed his lips and burned its way down his throat. He told himself that he had kept his wits about him though, repeated it and repeated it until the fact that he was rubbing himself up against John meant nothing. He even convinced himself that when John finally grabbed him, arse first and then his hips and his waist, it was all just friendly fun. Until John was kissing him.

The rugby team could never say where Sherlock and John had disappeared off to so quickly. Except for Greg, of course. But he painfully sealed his lips and texted his extremely meddlesome boyfriend instead of blabbing.


	36. Candy - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh shit, Halloween was on Friday and I still haven't gotten around to posting all the stories. But the truth is we are all a little late with the last prompts. I still have one more to write myself. Goodness gracious me. Apologies! as Mycroft would say. 
> 
> The prompt is: Candy

 

"John," Sherlock said, standing formally in front of John.

"Mm?" John hummed in reply. He tore his eyes up from the paper. He had been hoping to find something to entertain Sherlock with; a bit of police idiocy, some gossip, a funny typo. John's internal clock was chiming away telling him that it had been a few days since a case had caught Sherlock's attention and interested him. A tantrum about boredom was sure to be coming if he didn't rectify the situation quickly enough.

"I know you enjoy holidays. I mean not the time-off-work kind but the kind where people think history somehow requires them – I say them but I mean you, John. You have some awful Christmas sweaters and I don't know _how_ you manage to wear them and _not_ look ridiculous. You're a very handsome man, I suppose, but there must be _something else_ that you do but that is not the point, John – requires them to wear red velvet hats or dress up as a witch or dance around a pole decorated with flowers. The stories written in history books isn't even real John, I saw a video onine about how only a very small percentage of history is accurately potrayed in the textbooks used in schools. Imagine forcing below average intelligence children to learn and then teaching them _inaccurate information_. It's no wonder Mycroft has to work so hard to keep the country running. Really, I-"

"Sherlock, get to the point," John said. He folded the newspaper in his lap, far more interested now that he realised that Sherlock was actually nervous with whatever it was he had come to say. There wasn't much that made Sherlock Holmes nervous.

"I _am,_ John. You're the one who is always telling me to be more patient. What kind of example are you setting for me now that you're hu-"

"Sherlock, _the point_ ," John said, tapping his fingertips on the paper on the last word.

Sherlock stopped and took a deep breath, sucking it in so hard that his nostrils curved inward.

"I would like you to purchase me sweeties for Halloween as I believe that is the custom. You bought them for me on Valentine's day, John, I don't see why you wouldn't do it now. Isn't that what you do in relationships? You purchase them things they want and listen to their desires and-"

"Sherlock, when did you hear me say no?" John said, trying his best to sound reasonable and not as if his ridiculous partner in crime-solving and life what a bit more cute than an adult male should be.

Sherlock scrunched up his nose and quickly recalled the conversation they'd had. Well, it was a lot of him talking _at_ John, he had to concede so John hadn't really had the _chance_ to say no but he was sure it was coming.

"Well, I suppose _no_ but- where are you going?" Sherlock asked, his face falling into a worried abandoned puppy look.

"Where do you think I'm going, you clot?" John said. He was already pulling on his jacket.

Sherlock's hyperactive mind stilled just a little and he smiled the smile he kept only for John.

"Fine. Hurry," he said. He sat down on his chair and crossed his legs and waited. Happily


	37. Candy - golfechoromeo

 

It was Sherlock's biggest secret that he loved Halloween. He pretended that he didn't because Mycroft said that only little kids loved Halloween and Sherlock was _not_ a little kid. He was a big boy and big boys didn't get excited about Halloween.

Sherlock got to his desk the Monday of Halloween week and there was a piece of candy on his desk. His eyes grew wide and he looked around the classroom. No one else had candy on their desks. Just him. Slipped the candy into his pocket, Sherlock sat down and acted like nothing had happened. He didn't want to share his special candy with anyone. If someone saw him with it, he would have to share. He didn't _want_ to share with anyone, especially not Sally or Phillip.

No, this candy was special. He would wait until he got home to examine it for clues to see if he could figure out who it was from. Sherlock was very good at looking for clues. All day he looked at his classmates, trying to determine who had given him the candy, but no one looked at him differently, no one said anything that made him suspicious.

"Sherlock, what's that in your hand?" his mother asked him when he arrived home from school, clutching the piece of candy in both of his hands.

"It'th a thecret," he said mysteriously.

"You can tell your mother anything," Mrs. Holmes said warmly. "Show me what you have."

Sherlock nodded and opened his hand slowly, the brightly coloured wrapping of the sweet making him smile in excitement.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Mrs. Holmes said. "Who gave that to you?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, sounding puzzled. "I wath trying to figure it out today at thcool but it wath really hard."

"Well, whoever it was must know you have a sweet tooth," Mrs. Holmes said.

Sherlock gaped at his mother. She was so smart. "Yeth," he said. He ran upstairs to his room to begin his deductions.

The following day at school, Sherlock went to his desk and saw another piece of candy on his desk. Again, he didn't show any excitement but slipped it into his pocket and sat down at his desk so no one else would know about the secret candy. Internally, he was screaming with thrilled anticipation and happiness. He had _another_ piece of candy. Someone liked him and wanted to be his friend.

But who was it?

He had a list of names in his bedroom, sitting on his desk. All of the people he knew at his school. Sherlock had crossed out the names of the children who he _knew_ didn't give him the candy. His mother was right. It had to be someone who knew he liked sweets. The only problem was that he couldn't remember who he had told.

Wednesday and Thursday passed much the same way. Each day a new piece of candy, and each day Sherlock took it without a word, wanting desperately to go home and try and figure out who had given it. He had no leads. It was very frustrating.

Finally, on Halloween, Sherlock had his mother drive him to school extra early. He was dressed in his bee costume, which Mycroft had made fun of in the morning, but Sherlock didn't care. He was too excited to learn who the mystery candy-giver was that he forgot to pretend he hated Halloween. He forgot that he was supposed to say it was for kids. He had a little bag of candy in his pocket to give to whoever wanted to be his friend.

Running to his desk, Sherlock's heart was thundering in his chest. A friend. Someone wanted to be his friend. That was why the person was leaving him candy. It had to be.

Sherlock got to his desk and he felt his stomach drop. There was no candy there.

He sat down in his chair and started to cry.

No one wanted to be his friend. No one _ever_ wanted to be your friend.

"You okay?" someone asked him.

"Go away," Sherlock sniffed, not wanting to talk to anyone.

"But you're crying," the boy said again.

"Tho?" Sherlock asked. "It doethn't matter."

"Why are you crying?"

Sherlock looked at the boy. It was John Watson, dressed as an army soldier for Halloween. John was always nice to everyone at the school. He probably felt sorry that Sherlock had no friends.

"Becauthe I thought thomeone want to my friendth with me," Sherlock said, the tears running down his cheeks. "Thomeone wath leaving me candy and I thought I had a friend. But no one wantth to be my friend."

"But you didn't like the candy I left for you," John said quietly.

"What did you thay?" Sherlock said, his eyes snapping up to John quite suddenly.

"I left you the candy every day, but you just put it in your pocket and didn't look happy. I thought you didn't like it."

"You gave me the candy?" Sherlock asked in awe.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you like candy."

"How did you know that?" Sherlock asked. "I didn't tell you I liked candy."

John gave a half smile. "You always have one piece in the lunch your mum sends you with. So I wanted to give you an extra piece."

"But why?" Sherlock asked. He had stopped crying now and was looking at John in wonder. "Do you want to be my friend, John?"

"Yes. Do you want to be mine?"

"Yeth," Sherlock said, smiling. "I brought thith for whoever gave me the candy. Thinthe it wath you, here you go!" Sherlock handed John the bag of sweets.

"Wow," John said. "Thanks, Sherlock."

"You're welcome."

"You're a good friend."

"So are you."

John smiled. "I love Halloween. Your bee costume is neat. Did you make it or buy it?"

Sherlock didn't answer; he was too happy. Not only did he have a friend, but it was John Watson. John, who gave him candy. John, who liked his costume. John, who loved Halloween. Sherlock didn't need to pretend anymore that he didn't. He could just eat candy with John and be friends.

 


	38. Pirate - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Pirate. And I couldn't help but do another Wimpy Tentacle one. I, much like wt, cannot be tamed.

The Wimpy Tentacle had been very busy throughout the night. It had lifted an eyeliner from Mrs. Hudson 's purse days prior and hid it in Sherlock's pocket, then in the couch cushions and then finally under Sherlock's pillow. It was going to be Halloween and Sherlock had resisted  _ all _ of the fun Wimpy Tentacle wanted to have. All the time spent Googling for fun costumes, decorations and disgusting looking foods had been spent in vain and Wimpy Tentacle regretted that it had to take the covert approach but it was necessary.   
  
The Wimpy Tentacle waited until Sherlock was fast asleep. It had almost forgotten about its plan after John had sucked on it and fucked Sherlock until he made that squealing sound. It had almost happily found rest curled around John's soft cock. The mission was too important to forget.   
  
The Wimpy Tentacle spent the night decorating Sherlock's face with a moustache, scars and an eye patch. It would have looked better to have a real eye patch instead of a drawn on one but desperate times called for desperate measures. As for John's costume, Wimpy Tentacle trusted John would put on a real one.  
  
“Tea. And you need to shower,” John said when he woke the following morning.   
  
“Mm, your liberal use of lubrication is hard to wash off in one go,” Sherlock said.  
  
John rolled over to his side and opened his eyes to get his first look at his gorgeous consulting detective of the day. He snorted a laugh.  
  
“What?” Sherlock said. He feared looking ridiculous in front of John. In fact, if he was looking ridiculous now they were never sharing a bad over night again. John would only see him when he had showered, dressed and primped.  
  
The Wimpy Tentacle wiggled free from the blanket to wave the well-used eye liner around to stop John from giving everything it had worked for away.   
  
“Nothing. Just... I can't believe how much I want to kiss you sometimes,” John said. It wasn't a lie so he hoped it would slip under Sherlock's inner lie detector.  
  
Sherlock frowned. Something wasn't right about what John was saying but something funny had happened since he had started to regularly kiss John; sometimes he preferred kisses to being right or figuring out the reasons _ why  _ John wanted to kiss him.   
  
Sherlock pursed his lips, a frown still on his forehead and waited for the kiss John had all but promised him.  
  
John kissed him softly, careful not to smudge the drawn on moustache.   
  
It was the kind of kiss that made something warm expand in Sherlock's midsection and make him feel loved.  
  
“I'll make you tea, John,” Sherlock said. He had it down to the millilitre how much milk John liked in his morning cup of tea and it felt important that John get exactly the type of tea he wanted this particular morning.  
  
“Cheers. I'll go first in the loo then shall I,” John said, keen to keep Sherlock away from all the obvious mirrors in the flat. He wanted to see for how long Sherlock's subconscious could keep fooling itself.  
  
“Yes, it's good to urinate in the morning. It flushes out the urinary tract and prevents microbial build up,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yes,” John said. He didn't bother mentioning to Sherlock that he was a doctor. Sherlock already knew and John suspected that Sherlock just couldn't help being a smart arse.  
  
John did flush out his urinary tract and then spent a little time making his hair lie the way he wanted it to. He heard Mrs. Hudson come up the stairs and staggered his exit from the bathroom a little more. He wasn't quite ready for the energy of Mrs. Hudson, who had probably been up for hours already.   
  
“If you wanted to go ahead with a party, I don't know why you were sending _ me  _ the things. I'm not a carrier service, I have a bad hip. It wouldn't kill you to show a little consideration for your elderly landlady. And honestly, Sherlock, it's too early to be dressing up already,” John heard Mrs. Hudson say.   
  
_ Ah shit, _ he thought. The game was up.  
  
“Dressing up? Mrs. Hudson this robe cost more than your little brain could _ possibly _ imagine,” Sherlock snapped. He didn't know why he was being told off and he certainly did not appreciate it.  
  
“Oh did it now? Seems you could have got a professional to do your make up then. Hang on, did you take my eyeliner? It's been missing. You did, didn't you, Sherlock Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said, her voice rising in pitch.   
  
“Eyeliner? What are you talking about? Have you been getting into your _ herbal soothers  _ again Mrs. Hudson? It's a bit early in the day, don't you think?” Sherlock said.  
  
“Well, I am surprised at you. Have you not looked in the mirror this morning?” Mrs. Hudson said. Her tone had changed entirely. It had gone from a telling off to teasing. She had an inkling of what had happened.  
  
“Mirror?” Sherlock said. He scrambled to the mirror above the fireplace.  
  
There was a silence that lasted a few seconds before Sherlock screeched John's name.  
  
“Yes, darling?” John called out.  
  
He could hear Sherlock's  gasp because John was daring to make a mockery out of him with a pet name.   
  
“ _ Darling? You knew and you let me walk around looking like this. No! Mrs. Hudson put that camera down! _ ”

John hurried out the bathroom to see Sherlock cowering with his face in his hands and the Wimpy Tentacle waving madly around, holding up the eyeliner in pride as if to say  _ I did this! It was me all along!  _ Mrs. Hudson had her phone out, snapping pictures with her mascara running from tears.

“I am moving! Emigrating!” Sherlock shouted.   
  
The Wimpy Tentacle dropped the eyeliner in shock and strained terribly toward John. It wouldn't survive without John. It wouldn't. It'd fall off and die. And who would be holding John's hands, bottom and cock if it wasn't there to do it? The very idea of someone else doing it was unbearable.   
  
“Oh calm down, you drama queen,” John said. He quickly came forward to hold the Wimpy Tentacle. John always responded very quickly when it showed signs of distress. ”It'll wash off and then you can call Lestrade to pester him for a nasty murder. Hmm? Won't that be nice?”  
  
”I'm not a child, John,” Sherlock said with a tremendous pout.   
  
“No, Lestrade wouldn't let a child on to a crime scene, so I reckon you have a pretty good shot at it,” John said.  
  
“I can't go outside today. I've been humiliated,” Sherlock said.   
  
“That's fine because we're having a party,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
  
“Definitely not,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Definitely yes. My flat is full of boxes and it's all themed. Your face goes quite well with it,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
  
“How much did you spend on this spectacle?” Sherlock said accusingly to John.

”I didn't spend anything! You really shouldn't let your tentacles play unsupervised with your laptop,” John said.   
  
The Wimpy Tentacle was seeking refuge up John's shirt.  
  
“Oh you blame this on me!” Sherlock said hotly.  
  
“No, no. All right. Let's just calm down. Okay? What if we, I don't know, take the decorations that look scary and bloody, set them up around the flat and have Greg come over,” John said.  
  
The Wimpy Tentacle lubed over John's stomach. They could do a Halloween prank. It was better than it'd hoped. It would be so much fun and then John could do that thing that made Sherlock squeal again.  
  
“Fine. But I make all the decisions,” Sherlock said.  
  
“You always bloody do,” John said.  
  
He didn't really mean it. They both knew that the Wimpy Tentacle as good as ran their lives now.


	39. Pirate - Megstagz

 

Sherlock had not meant to make Hamish cry.  It was never his intention to make their son anything but happy, even if he did upset him occasionally.  This was one of the times when he was sure that he had done the right thing, even though Hamish was sobbing. Sherlock just didn't know how to solve this, didn't know how to make it better. Maybe he couldn't at all. 

 

Sitting at the table in the kitchen, he pulled his microscope towards him, the sound of Hamish crying in the stairwell cutting through him like a jagged knife.  Sherlock tried to focus his mind on the experiment in front of him, a vain attempt considering the only thing he could think about was what he had said and how it had affected Hamish. 

 

_John will be home any minute. That's why Hamish is sitting on the stairs. He's waiting to tell John everything.  And then John will tell me how to fix it, after he yells at me._

 

As if on cue, there was the sound of the door closing below and the quickening of footsteps; John had heard the crying and wanted to eradicate whatever pain his son was feeling. Sherlock cringed knowing that he was going to be in trouble, but John would help make the situation better for everyone. John would help both of them. John would fix it. He always did. 

 

Sherlock continued to work on his experiment as he listened carefully to the conversation in the hallway, but Hamish was smart. Of course he knew his father was listening in and so he told John everything in a whisper. 

 

"Oh did he?" John's voice carried through the wall and Sherlock knew it had been raised on purpose so that it was clear John was aware of what had happened. This only made the fault line of guilt inside of him open up even more, threatening to swallow him whole. 

 

It was a few more minutes before the door opened and Sherlock heard John say, "Now go sit on the couch with your book while I talk to your dad." Sherlock took a deep breath and waited. He was in for it. 

 

John walked into the kitchen and, perhaps it was Sherlock's imagination, or maybe he had been at the receiving end of John's temper often enough, but Sherlock felt the temperature of the room increase dramatically as if waves of heated anger were rolling off John intensely. 

 

"So," John started, his voice struggling to remain calm and level. "Care to explain to me why our _son_ is sitting in the living room feeling absolutely _devastated_ because of something you said to him? Something that you and I both know is a fucking _lie_?"

 

"It isn't a lie," Sherlock said evasively. 

 

"You told our son that it is embarrassing to dress in costume for Halloween." John was now shaking with fresh tremours of fury. "He was so looking forward to his costume this year. You know it's all he's been talking about for months. Ever since he read that damn book. And _you_ , of all people, are going to ruin that for him? You're really going to be the one to stifle what he loves?"

 

"You don't understand," Sherlock said, his old feelings starting to bubble to the surface, the anxieties and insecurities. Every old wound seemed to be reopening simultaneously.  

 

"Then explain it to me," John seethed. "Explain to me why it's fine to destroy his excitement. Because I sure as hell cannot understand it. I cannot even _fathom_ why you would-"

 

"Because he will be mocked by his peers," Sherlock said in a carefully quiet whisper. He did not want Hamish to hear any of what he was saying. That was why he hadn't told Hamish the truth to begin with. He would rather his son be mad at him then have Hamish face everything he had gone through as a child. Hamish deserved friends and Sherlock didn't want him to be alone in life the way he had been before John. 

 

"He what?" Clearly whatever John had expected Sherlock's excuse to be, it certainly wasn't that. 

 

Sherlock sighed and pulled John further into the kitchen just in case Hamish could hear. "John, the way Hamish feels about birds is exactly the way I felt about bees when I was his age."

 

"Still feel about bees," John corrected. 

 

"Regardless," Sherlock said, undeterred. "I dressed as a bee for Halloween and it led to relentless torment and bullying. I don't want Hamish to live through that ever. It's our job to protect him from all of that, John."

 

John took Sherlock's hand in his own. "All he wants is to dress like a parrot.  Don't deny him that. And you can explain to him why you said those things to him before we go trick-or-treating. But you're going to have to really prove to him that you are on his side. Sherlock, he doesn't care about what other people thinks. He cares about what you think. And right now, Hamish could use his dad's support." 

 

That was exactly what Hamish Watson had when he left the flat with his dads that evening to go trick-or-treating. Sherlock had spoken to him about his reasoning for not wanting his son to dress as a parrot for Halloween and Hamish then promptly (and with enough attitude to rival Sherlock's own), told his father that he didn't care what his peers said. He wanted to be a parrot. 

 

And after much discussion and deliberation, both Hamish and John wanted Sherlock to dress like a pirate, knowing that would help soothe the wounds.  

 

"Thank you, Dad," Hamish said, wrapping his arms around his father's legs and squeezing tightly. 

 

"What kind of pirate would your father be if he didn't have his parrot?" John asked as he snapped a picture of the two of them. "You see, Hamish? It doesn't matter what anyone else says, because you're happy, right?"

 

"Right," Hamish agreed and gave an ecstatic smile. "Dad doesn't care that he's dressed as a pirate."

 

"No, he doesn't," John said, speaking for Sherlock. "And I still love him.  You be happy being you, Hamish."

 

Sherlock nodded and scooped up their son into his arms, Hamish's giggle warming and healing all of the guilt and pain from earlier. "Aye," he said in his pirate voice that Hamish loved the most, knowing that whatever happened to his son, he and John would be there to help. "Now let's get ye some candy. Aye. Avast!"


End file.
